


All We Ever Have is Hunger (All We Never Get is Power)

by crispyjenkins



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Events at Galidraan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Bandomeer, Alternate Universe - Siblings, BAMF Obi-Wan Kenobi, Changes to timeline, Jedi Culture Respected, Knowledge of Movie Required, M/M, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a, Minor Violence, Moderate to Major Injury, Naboo Culture and Customs (Star Wars), POV Alternating, Phantom Menace AU, Slow Build, This is Not kind to Qui-Gon but not a bash fic, and i do not know how to sculpt, canon cherry-picked from across all media, canon is my clay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24891592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispyjenkins/pseuds/crispyjenkins
Summary: “Who are you?” Naberrie hisses, close enough to fog Jango’s visor, and he certainly sounds capable of following through on his implicit threat; Jango flicks his eyes down to the staff and feels a sharp edge pressing against his throat, and where the kriff had he gotten a kriffingbeskar’vik.“We’re here to rescue you,” Jaster says, leveling his blaster to the side of Naberrie’s head, "but if you hurt my boy, I won’t hesitate to kill you.”Or: Obi-Wan survives a year on Bandomeer before the Queen of Naboo frees the slaves of his mine on a mercy mission. Five year old Padmé adopts him by sheer force of will.
Relationships: Implied Padmé Amidala/Sabé - Relationship, Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padmé Amidala & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 674
Kudos: 2603
Collections: Anything But Qui-Gon





	1. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **edit 8/2:** updates are scattered at the mo! i'm slowly working on this and everything else, and might someday get back to a regular schedule, but we will see! thank you all so much for your support i love you all (づ￣ ³￣)づ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Mando’a Translations:**  
>  (in order of appearance)  
>  _beskar_ — Mandalorian iron  
>  _jetiise_ — pl. of jetii, Jedi  
>   
>  **Huttese Translations:**  
>  (in order of appearance)  
>  _ootmian_ — outlander, outsider  
>  _inkabunga_ — amazing, awesome, brilliant
> 
>  **Other non-Basic Phrases:**  
>  _ser_ — gender neutral address of respect for someone at or below your station  
>  _serah_ — gender neutral address of respect for someone higher than your station  
>  _messere_ — gender neutral address of high respect, specifically those in government or of cultural importance

**Q** ueen Amidala’s equally young and ostentatious advisor guides her through the halls of the palace with a hand on her lower back, and Qui-Gon watches him with narrowed eyes as Captain Panaka leads them towards the closest hangar. When Chancellor Valorum had requested him personally to help negotiate a treaty with the Trade Federation, he hadn’t realised that protecting the Queen also meant protecting her entourage of five handmaidens and an advisor that barely comes up to Qui-Gon’s chin.

Of course, with Yoda as his grandmaster, he doesn’t judge solely based on height, but this Naberrie fellow carries on the Naboo tradition of a far too young government, and hiding his age with makeup. Instead of Her Majesty red, his accents are a deep unnatural blue, the shade an exact match to his striking eyes that twist something deep in Qui-Gon’s chest that he had thought he had shoved so far down he couldn’t feel anymore. The traitorous part of his mind that never lies to him whispers that Naberrie looks to be the proper age, the jut of his chin is just similar enough, and Qui-Gon remembers Bandomeer like an unhealed scar, but he will not let this affect the mission. 

“Serah Jinn,” a handmaiden —Eirtaé, he believes— falls into step next to him, lifting her skirts so she doesn’t trip. “Her Majesty wonders if you know how to fly the J-Type 327 we use as a royal transport.”

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow, looking behind him at the Queen before back up at Captain Panaka. The Captain sighs and shakes his head.

“The Volunteer Guard are not trained pilots,” he says, directing them down another hallway that looks exactly the same as the last. “If we don’t find a pilot in the hangar, we’ll be sitting ducks.”

“Hmm, yes, that does pose a problem.” Qui-Gon steps aside to let the Queen round the corner ahead of him, not sure what to make of Eirtaé falling back with him. “I am certainly not my temple’s best flier, but the Force will provide. I said I would protect you, Your Majesty, and I intend to do so.”

The Queen nods silently, but the handmaiden on her left, who Qui-Gon hadn’t gotten the name of, looks over her shoulder at Qui-Gon and adds, “Messere Naberrie is an excellent pilot for short distances, and can offer support if needed.”

This _Messere_ Naberrie won’t even look him in the eye, which certainly does not fill Qui-Gon with confidence, but looking closer at the deceptively gentle hand Naberrie has on the Queen convinces Qui-Gon that he’s at least been trained to protect her. 

Qui-Gon allows his long legs to take him back up next to the Queen to get another look at Naberrie’s face. “Well, Mr. Naberrie?” he inquires, overly casual, but is disappointed when Naberrie’s strange calm does not break, the boy merely blinking back at Qui-Gon with his wide, too-blue eyes. 

The unnamed handmaiden frowns, and Qui-Gon is sure that it is only in polite place of a scowl. It is the Queen, however, that answers the tense silence, “We are grateful for help and protection, Ser Jinn, but you will show my advisor his proper respects. If it were not for Messere Naberrie’s quick thinking with the Viceroy, we would not be here for you to rescue.”

According to some, Naberrie could be blamed for the whole invasion business in the first place, but Qui-Gon keeps this to himself as Panaka pulls the group to a stop outside an open set of grand doors. 

“That’s quite alright, Your Majesty,” Naberrie murmurs, his voice soft and musical, but he does not speak Basic with a Theed accent; Qui-Gon will need more time to place it properly, but it doesn’t even sound _Nabooian._

“No, no, my apologies, Messere, Your Majesty,” Qui-Gon is quick to say, giving a small bow to the Queen as Naberrie steps between her and the open hall, leaving her protected on all sides. 

“Ser Jedi,” Naberrie says in that same, soft way, “with your leave, I will offer support where I can, but I will not be able to take point.”

“Then we will make due.”

Panaka grunts and nods into the hangar. “We may not need to. The droids have kept the pilots alive, we can free them on our way to the transport.”

Qui-Gon leans around the door to take quick stock of the hangar, half a dozen fighters and the single royal transport only taking up a third of the bays. A handful of droids have the pilots and technicians sat at the far end of the hangar, seemingly unharmed, and Qui-Gon decides that between the Volunteer Guard’s blasters and his ‘saber, it should be easy enough to indeed free them on the way if, Force willing, none of the Guard misses. 

“Well, Serah Jedi?” Panaka asks, blaster aimed safely at the ground. 

“Your Majesty, Captain Panaka will take you directly to the transport with your handmaidens," he decides. "I and the remaining men will deal with the droids and rescue the pilots. Captain?”

Panaka nods again and flips his blaster off safety, holding out a hand to beckon the Queen. “It’s as good a plan as any,” he says, before walking right into the hangar.

It’s surprisingly quick work, even with Qui-Gon’s confidence in the matter, to dispatch the droids and usher the entourage up the ramp of the ship. One of the pilots runs ahead and the engines blast to life as Qui-Gon is helping Eirtaé over the edge of the hatch, but the relief is short lived as the Force shouts a warning and the sound of rolling droids thunders down the hall they had come from. Destroyers. 

“Captain!” Naberrie snaps, appearing at the top of the ramp and taking Eirtaé’s hand to direct her towards the hall to the rest of the ship. Panaka looks helplessly from Naberrie to Qui-Gon and then back again, before giving a nod and marching after Eritaé. Qui-Gon makes his ire known with a simple sigh.

“Naberrie,” he says as calmly as he can, unhooking his lightsaber from his belt, but Naberrie shakes his head firmly and a baton drops into his hand from one opulent sleeve. With a practiced flick of his arm, the baton extends into a full bo staff that Naberrie spins in his hand before striding back down the ramp. 

“Ser Jinn, see that Her Majesty makes it to Coruscant,” he orders, despite the overly-respectful appellation. “I will distract them.”

Qui-Gon actually laughs. “You cannot be serious.”

Naberrie looks him square in the eye, a familiar fire in his breath that has Qui-Gon wilting under the intensity. Force, but his eyes... It had been nine years, he tells himself, even as Naberrie’s lips curl into a determined snarl that Qui-Gon has seen once before, on an initiate stepping off a Jedi transport to the Agricorp and refusing to bend under his failures.

“They will not make it without you. My duty is to my Queen and my people,” he says as four droideka roll into the hangar and throw up their shields, blasters out. “Go!”

The Force all but shouts at Qui-Gon to listen to him, shouts about familiarity and trust, and his legs move before he tells them to, taking him up into the transport without his permission. Naberrie does not watch him go.

Spinning his staff, Naberrie cleanly drops his outer robe to the floor, his makeup making his expression even more difficult to read. This is madness, surely, going against droidekas with nothing but a _stick,_ but the Force pushes Qui-Gon onwards, and he retracts the ramp before closing the hatch.

It makes almost no sound as the airlock engages, but it is all too loud in Qui-Gon’s ears, feeling just as he had back then, those blue, blue eyes staring at him as he left them on Bandomeer. Something tears in Qui-Gon as the pilots engage the launch sequence, the ship rumbling as it leaves the hangar and shoots into the Nabooian sky. Leaving another child in another warzone. 

He takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes, attempting to release those emotions and memories into the Force. It’s been _nine years,_ he should have stripped himself of this guilt by now. Now was not the time to dwell.

“No!” The unnamed handmaiden whips into the hold and stares at the closed hatch with a terror quite unbecoming of one of the Queen’s bodyguards. Then again, she is a _child,_ Qui-Gon tells himself as he has to catch her around the middle to stop her from diving for the control panel.

“Peace, my lady!” he says, ignoring the way her nails dig into his arm in desperation. “He stayed to buy us time, to buy the Queen time: do not let his sacrifice be in vain.”

The handmaiden stares up at him as if someone had just ripped out her own heart and shown it to her, and Qui-Gon remembers her disdain in the hall; a lover, perhaps? Force, he hopes not, she is far too young for that sort of thing. 

She takes a tiny step back, terrified stare dropping back to the hatch. “Not sacrifice.” 

Qui-Gon blinks at her, though he’s not sure if she’s trying to convince him, or herself. “Force willing,” he agrees, releasing her when he’s sure she isn’t going to make for the control panel again. “He has been trained, yes?”

She nods, eyes bright, and wraps her arms around herself. “Of course,” she whispers. “He can hold his own against a few droids.”

He won’t lie to her about his actual odds of surviving, not with all he’s seen of the Trade Federation’s persistence just on this mission alone, so he says nothing.

The handmaiden glares at him as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking, and hugs herself tighter. “It’s beskar.”

“Excuse me?”

“His staff.” She swallows and takes a few breaths that seem almost meditative, before turning back towards the hall. “We are not safe yet, Serah Jinn. I’m sure Captain Panaka requires you in the cockpit, I will tell Her Majesty of her advisor.”

Qui-Gon lets her go silently, wondering where in Corellian Hells the Naboo had gotten _beskar._

**S** abé hugs her as soon as the door to the royal quarters swishes closed, even though she’s only halfway out of her regalia. Padmé lets herself be held, but doesn’t cry, doesn’t feel strong enough even if she had wanted to. “I’m so sorry,” Sabé whispers, and Padmé lets that numb sort of sadness overtake her bones.

She inhales a shaky breath before nodding against Sabé’s shoulder. “He’ll be alright.”

“He was trained for this, just as we were,” Sabé says, pulling away just enough to press their foreheads together instead, like she used to when they were children and Obi-Wan wasn’t around to guide her through her fears. “He has Serah Jobal’s baton, he has the force of the people: he will not be taken easily.”

“And perhaps it is best he did not join us,” Eirtaé adds softly, pressing into their space and resting her hand on Padmé’s shoulder. “He would not have wanted to return to Coruscant.”

And Padmé can’t argue with that. Obi-Wan has been working with the Naboo Council for years, has been offered multiple times to accompany Senator Palpatine to Coruscant, but he had politely declined each time. She doesn’t know the full story of what happened before Bandomeer, but she knows that despite being Stewjoni, Obi-Wan was raised on Coruscant, had even had the accent for it before their mother helped him learn High Naboo instead. 

She should have known he would do something stupid and reckless like throw himself against the Trade Federation’s newest battle droids just to avoid seeing the planet again. 

The ship shakes around them, and they hear Captain Panaka and Master Jinn shout hurriedly to each other, reminding Padmé she doesn’t have time to mourn just yet. Maybe they won’t even make it off Naboo, she thinks bitterly, with a Jedi that cannot even fly. 

Sabé places an infinitely soft hand on Padmé’s chest, taps two fingers over her heart, and Padmé centers herself on the feeling, just as Obi-Wan had tried to teach her. Taking slow breaths, she pulls inward and focuses on the present, on the here and now of the royal cabin, on her handmaidens and their warm glow around her, on the five other pieces of her _soul._

Sabé presses more firmly against her forehead for a moment before pulling away completely. “If we are to save Obi-Wan,” she says, brushing gently over Padmé’s cheeks, “we must convince the senate to hear our plight.”

Padmé nods firmly, dropping her shoulders and forcing the terror, the sadness to the background: she is a Queen before she is a sister, just as Obi-Wan is her protector before he is her brother. He is not giving up, and neither will she.

Despite being the closest to Force-null out of anyone in her mother’s family, Padmé doesn’t need the Force to know that Anakin is special. Maybe it's the Tatooine heat getting to her, but the suns seem to shine around this boy, and even his Toydarian owner has a soft spot a parsec-wide for him. He speaks intelligently for a nine year-old slave, matured on the harshness of his life and the stories of those able to leave Mos Espa for the stars; Padmé's whole heart aches as she remembers when her mother first brought Obi-Wan to them, the way the light shone around him, too.

But she cannot allow herself to think of Obi-Wan now, as she follows Qui-Gon from Watto’s shop down the street to the nearest cantina. R2 beeps at Qui-Gon menacingly, and Padmé can’t but agree: what is the mad Jedi thinking, bringing a fourteen year-old to a place like this? Surely he isn’t planning on _gambling_ for a hyperdrive. 

As if reading her thoughts (and you never know with Jedi), Qui-Gon shoots her a reassuring smile over his shoulder and leads the way straight to the bar, where he greets the tender like old friends. Blandly, Padmé thinks Qui-Gon certainly looks scruffy enough to fit in.

Then she chides herself for being bitter and rude, and follows her escort all while trying not to look too much like an easy target for the beedy eyes that leer at her from the smoky shadows. R2 stays right on her heel and brandishes his electric prod at anyone that looks too long, and Padmé wonders fondly who had programmed him to be so very loyal.

“I heard Mereel is often in this system?” Qui-Gon is asking the bartender when Padmé finally weaves her way through the tables to join him.

The bartender grunts, glaring down at Padmé before answering. “Normally I’d say you’re kriff outta luck,” the Esperion grumbles, “but ‘heard he was takin’ a job from Jabba with that foundling of his.”

Qui-Gon smiles serenely. “That’s too bad, I was rather hoping to avoid the Hutts, at least for now.”

The Esperion barks out a laugh and sets down his rag to lean into Qui-Gon’s space, though it seems more in humour than in threat. “You wanna hire a bounty hunter on Tatooine? You gotta go through Jabba, _ootmian,_ ‘specially for Mereel: he’s guild, y’know?”

Hmming, Qui-Gon tilts his head, and then passes a hand over the bartender’s face. “You will tell me where I can find him.”

Padmé watches in awe as the Esperion _answers immediately,_ as if he hadn’t protested in the first place. “‘Heard he's berthed over in Ved Vooppi’s shipyards, bay twelve. ‘Saw his foundling at Mooka’s blaster shop.”

“Thank you.” Qui-Gon smiles and straightens, beckoning for Padmé to follow, “Shall we?”

She waits until they’re a few streets away before she grabs Qui-Gon and tugs him into the nearest alley; she checks to make sure they’re alone, of course, then whirls on the Jedi who doesn’t seem very surprised to be suddenly accosted. “You’re hiring a _bounty hunter?”_

Qui-Gon doesn’t scoff, as she’s sure he wants to, and instead simply smiles at her. “He is a friend of Chancellor Valorum, just as I, and I have worked with him before.”

“Ser Jinn, I understand that I am young and from a peaceful planet, but I’m not a _fool;_ why, by the Force, are we trying to hire a bounty hunter?”

“Because we cannot contact Coruscant,” Qui-Gon says calmly, and Padmé is used to being looked at and talked to like a child, but she had hoped serving a queen just as young would give her some standing with their escort; clearly she had been mistaken. “I’m sure you have great faith in Messere Naberrie’s abilities, but I fear we will be too late to help him if we wait until our return.” Padmé tries not to flinch at her brother’s name, but she knows she’s failed when Qui-Gon sets a fatherly hand on her shoulder that she can’t quite bring herself to shake off. “He is far too important a political piece for the Trade Federation to keep in play for long. Please trust that I would not hire just anyone for such a task, when so much on Naboo relies on his safety.”

Which isn’t an answer, not really, but Padmé still closes her mouth and gives an unsure nod. She hadn’t thought she’d see Obi-Wan until the invasion was dealt with, however long that took; she doesn’t completely trust this Jedi or his methods, but she cannot refuse an offer for Obi-Wan's rescue. She is a sister second.

Swallowing her complaints, Padmé follows Qui-Gon back onto the street and stays just a step behind; the narrow roads are growing crowded as the day winds down, though she supposes if she did lose her bantha of an escort, he wouldn’t be hard to find. 

He leads the way like he knows where he’s going, and maybe he does: Qui-Gon certainly acts like he’s been here before, but Padmé isn’t sure if he’s not using the Force to guide him. Obi-Wan had said the Jedi could do something like that, didn’t he? Follow the way someone feels in the Force? He was always able to find her when she escaped the Naberrie estate, so he must have learned how from their mother during her lessons with Sabé.

Qui-Gon moves with confidence, though, and she doesn't question him again.

They slow to a stop in front of a hangar marked in Huttese on an ugly wooden sign over the palm reader. The door is open, surprisingly —though Padmé eyes the sand-crusted tracks with the suspicion that they can’t _close—_ and she can just see some sort of amphibious cargo ship berthed within; Qui-Gon enters after a short pause, and Padmé just hopes they’re not walking into a trap. 

A head pops out of a hatch at their approach, and Qui-Gon’s face splits into a smile that almost looks real. “Jaster!” he calls with a little wave.

“Qui-Gon!” the head calls back, rising to reveal a man nearly as tall as the Jedi, with trimmed black hair and laughter lines that immediately put Padmé at ease. He looks nothing like her father, but she can’t help feeling the warmth is the same, as he hoists himself out of the hatch. 

She immediately rescends that feeling when she takes in the Mandlorian armor the man wears, everything but the helmet. Does Qui-Gon even know what he’s getting them into? Obi-Wan has talked about Galidraan, about the Jedi’s involvement with Death Watch, why in Sweet Theed would he try and hire a Mandalorian?

But he smiles and shakes Qui-Gon’s hand, with a grip on his elbow with his free hand; despite it not being a Mando greeting, he clearly still tolerates Qui-Gon well enough, though the thought does not really comfort her.

“What brings you all the way out here, Jinn?” the Mandalorian —Mereel, her mind supplies— asks, giving her and R2 a kind smile. “I’d heard from Finis that you’d settled at the Temple.”

Qui-Gon tilts his head to laugh, looking far too comfortable with the situation. “I’ve just been put on off-world missions again,” he says good-naturedly. “And even then, I’ve run into a spot of trouble.”

Mereel's smile drops as he looks at Padmé for a long moment. Then, “Did he get you pregnant?”

Padmé would rather he shot them on sight.

“Jaster!” Qui-Gon snaps, suddenly icy. “That is inappropriate.”

But Mereel just shrugs. “You never know with you _jetiise._ What in Sith Hells did you get yourself into that you need my help?”

He sighs, crossing his arms, but he doesn’t have his robes to hide his hands in as he had done so often on the ship. “I had to make a quick getaway, and I’m afraid someone fell behind.”

Mereel’s brows raise even further, as he leans back on his heels to consider the trio they make: an exuberantly tall Jedi, a tiny fourteen year old in peasant dress, and a worse for wear astromech that beeps at him angrily in binary. “You need me for a retrieval? Isn’t that what the Order sends _you_ out for?”

“I’m afraid the game was quite different, this time around. I also need you to get him to Coruscant, when you find him.”

“Where did you leave the poor fool?”

“Naboo.”

Mereel’s shoulders drop as he sighs harshly. “Naboo’s on lockdown, Jinn. I don’t think you can afford the jump in rate that would take.”

“I can’t afford any of it,” Qui-Gon says _too_ honestly, smiling all the while, and Padmé has to resist the childish urge to kick him. “But I was on Naboo at Finis’ request, and I’m sure I can work something out with him once this is all resolved.”

“You know I take half up-front, _jetii.”_

“And I was hoping you would make an exception. Time is of the essence, and I’m afraid your mark doesn’t have much of it.”

He considers Qui-Gon for a long, long minute, and if Padmé didn’t know better she’d think him trying to read the Force, but he finally concedes with another sigh. “Give me the chit, then.”

Smiling like a smug tooka, Qui-Gon passes over a scrap of flimsi instead. “I’ll comm you the boy’s details once I return to our ship. Thank you, Jaster.”

“I want to be clear that I’m taking this for Finis, not for you.”

“Of course not,” Qui-Gon shakes his hand firmly, “I’m under no illusion that we’re friends, we merely share one. I thank you, still.”

Mereel snorts and pats his shoulder before turning to Padmé. “You let me know if he gives you any trouble, alright? I don’t mind breaking his nose again.”

Certainly a father then, Padmé thinks with a smile and accepts his handshake, though her fingers are dwarfed in his. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Are you a padawan?” Shmi asks her when Qui-Gon slips outside after dinner, and Padmé can’t help but laugh.

“No, no, I’m very much Force null,” she says and accepts the cup of tea Shmi hands her, as Anakin does the dishes in the little kitchen behind them. “I’m... a handmaiden, for the Queen of Naboo.”

Raising a brow, Shmi sits at the table across from her with a cup of her own. “You’re still quite young.”

“So is she.”

Shmi simply smiles, nodding, and Padmé has to wonder how much of her life she’s been forced to be so quick to acceptance. “And how did you end up with Mr. Jinn all the way out here? We’re a fair good way from Naboo.”

Padmé blinks at her. Had news of the invasion not reached this far? Mereel had known about the blockade, at least... But Shmi is a slave, Padmé reminds herself with a lump in her throat. Obi-Wan is so good at hiding his memories from before Naboo that sometimes she forgets just what that can mean; and she can’t imagine Watto keeping his slaves updated on current events, if he is even aware of them himself.

“We’re on our way to Coruscant,” she finally says, staring mulishly down into her cup. “If we can repair our ship, that is.”

“Have faith in Anakin.” Shmi smiles tiredly at her son’s back, the boy humming to himself and completely unaware of their conversation. “And I know you don’t trust him, but have faith in Mr. Jinn as well; I sense he has the right intentions.”

“Are... Are intentions enough?”

“Perhaps not,” she agrees, “but should we judge people for things that have not happened yet?”

“Perhaps not...” Padmé takes a careful sip of her tea, the deep earthy spice of it overwhelming her for a moment; it fills her with warmth in a deeply nostalgic way, while also tasting unlike anything she has ever had before. 

Shmi laughs at her expression, savouring her own cup. “Anakin can’t stand any tea from offworld, so my midwife taught me to make this. The plant is a little hard to find, but you won’t find a flavour like the roots anywhere else in the galaxy.” 

Padmé takes another long drink and definitely agrees; Shmi watches her with a softness she doesn’t think she quite deserves, and flusters under the attention. Jobal Naberrie is an exemplary mother, warm and firm and loving, but she does not smile like Shmi, like she has everything to lose. 

“Please forgive me if this is rude, I don’t often talk to people from offworld,” Shmi says, carefully setting down her tea. “But your family... you know someone with the Force?”

Padmé frowns, but tries not to look surprised; she’s a politician, whether she’s in the regalia or not. “I do,” she replies carefully, unsure where Shmi could take this.

Shmi folds her hands on top of the table, fingers going white with how tight she grips them, and does not meet Padmé’s eye. “You were not surprised by Anakin,” she murmurs, “and we— that is, those whose families possess a power that we do not, we have a certain... presence about us.”

Without having met Anakin first, Padmé isn’t sure if she would have been able to tell that about Shmi, but she nods for her to continue. 

“I wanted to... Anakin has dreamed of becoming a Jedi ever since he was told stories of them by the pilots in town, and I’m afraid I know so little about the galaxy, I’ve never left Tatooine. But there are other options for him? For Anakin?”

Something clenches around Padmé’s lungs, and she quickly picks up Shmi’s hands between both of her own, trying to ignore her tiny flinch. “My brother has a government position,” she says firmly. “He’s spoken of other creeds, others who walk with the Force; the Jedi aren’t the only masters of it.” She glances out onto the patio, where Qui-Gon is sat on the low wall looking up to the sky. “I’m not shy about my distrust of the Jedi,” she adds, “but that is due to... personal experience. I firmly believe Anakin would flourish at the Coruscant Temple, if that’s what he chooses.”

Shmi swallows and smiles shakily. “Thank you. If... If he chooses not to become a Jedi, could you introduce him to your brother?”

“You seem very sure Anakin will be coming with us.”

Her smile goes a little sly, and she pats Padmé’s cheek as if she knows the answer to some great secret. “He will,” she says with enough conviction that Padmé believes her.

To no one’s surprise, Padmé finds no sleep the next night, even wrapped up in Sabé’s arms in the Queen’s quarters. She lasts barely an hour before she carefully slips back to the galley to watch Governor Bibble’s message again, her heart clenching because it’s not _Obi-Wan._ Had they sent him to one of the camps? Oh Force, had they already killed him?

Little Anakin snuffles from where he’s sleeping on the bench, making Padmé flinch. She watches him for a moment, remembering how small Obi-Wan had looked when he first came to Naboo, and bites the inside of her lip as she searches the galley for a blanket.

And instead of returning to her quarters, Padmé covers Anakin and then sits on the other side of the bench, something about the boy calming her racing heart.

The worst part of it all, is that she had _known_ something was wrong when Qui-Gon had dropped from the balcony and rescued their entourage from the droids. Not once during the invasion —not once during the entire embargo, actually— had Obi-Wan let his calm slip. But the moment this Jedi had shown his face, Obi-Wan had frozen, had gone so pale it was obvious through his makeup, and Sabé had looked at him in alarm, so he must have been broadcasting into the Force. 

He rarely speaks of his time at the Temple, of what happened with the Agricorp, but Padmé has been able to piece a few things together, and, sitting in the space-chilled galley, she can piece together a little more: Qui-Gon Jinn had been one of the Jedi on Bandomeer.

Of that, Padmé is certain. Just how personally Obi-Wan had known him is up for debate, but nothing put a haunted look in her brother’s eyes quite like reminders of Bandomeer.

She had _known_ something was wrong with Obi-Wan during their rescue, she should have known he would do something stupid like _stay behind,_ put his life on the line to keep from ever going back to Coruscant. She should have stayed with him.

“You love him a lot?” 

Padmé startles so badly she almost whacks Anakin across the face, and he jolts up, grabbing her hand apologetically. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you! You just felt so sad and I don’t like it when people are sad.”

“It’s okay, Ani,” she quickly reassures, heart racing even as she smiles down at him. “You just surprised me.”

“Mom says I’m too quiet,” he says, sitting next to her properly and kicking his feet against the underside of the bench. “‘Used to scare Watto a lot.”

Which is an _incredibly_ amusing image that Padmé will have to return to when she’s more in the mood. 

She lifts her arm so he can settle against her side, and he does so eagerly. “But what did you mean, Ani? Do I love who?”

“I dunno,” he scrunches his face. “Whoever you were thinking about. I can’t see pictures, just feelings. You miss him a lot.”

Padmé purses her lips and somehow finds it impossible to lie to this child; she wonders if it has to do with the Force sensitivity she’d heard Qui-Gon talking about. “I was thinking about someone we left on Naboo. I’m afraid I... was reminded of a few things, on Tatooine.”

And Anakin is far too smart for his age, as he drops his head against her arm and hums thoughtfully. “Do you have slaves on Naboo?”

“What? No!” She shudders. “Absolutely not, Ani. But I have known those of the Freed.”

He accepts this as easily as his mother, a trait Padmé wishes she hadn’t made notice of. “And he was Freed? Your brother?”

Bewildered, because Obi-Wan never did stuff like this even at the beginning, Padmé pushes Anakin’s bangs out of his eyes to look at him properly. “Yes, but you can’t tell anybody else, okay? That’s his business.”

He nods seriously. “Don’t tell anybody, got it.”

“Hopefully, he’ll tell you the whole story when... when you two meet,” she continues, “but a previous queen ran a campaign to free slaves, as many as she could from a mining facility on Bandomeer. My... brother was the youngest there, so the queen asked her old advisor to foster him.”

“Your mom.”

“Stop reading my brain, Ani.”

“I’m not!” He huffs grumpily, too adorable for Padmé not to laugh. 

“Yes, it was my mother. The council hadn’t known there would be children at the mine, so they didn’t have anything set up for him, and the Queen didn’t know who else to ask. We adopted him within the month.”

“ _Inkabunga,”_ Anakin says with an awed smile, and Padmé winces, because this probably isn’t helping his conviction in her being an angel, of all things. “When will I get to meet him? If he’s your brother, he must be just as pretty as you!”

Laughing, she wraps him up in her arms and scrubs a bit of dirt from his cheek. “Hopefully it won’t be too long, he’s supposed to meet us on Coruscant,” if Qui-Gon’s bounty hunter doesn’t somehow get him killed, “and he is very pretty. I’m sure he’ll like you just as much as I do.”

Anakin gets a determined look on his face, and Padmé almost feels bad for when Obi-Wan meets him properly. Oh well, at least he’s fond of younglings.

**“M** asters,” Qui-Gon bows to the council, only rising when he receives a nod from Mace. 

“Good to see you it is, Qui-Gon,” Yoda says, laying his gimer stick across his lap. “Worried when communication was lost, we were.”

Mace inclines his head, but pleasantries could be exchanged outside the councilroom. “Queen Amidala is safe?”

“For now,” Qui-Gon agrees, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robes. “She has been given rooms at 500 Republica, at the behest of Senator Palpatine, and her Guard is more than capable now that we’re planetside.”

“Hrm, report now, you will, what happened on Naboo, yes.”

Despite all the drama, it’s an easy enough story to recount, from the Trade Federation’s attempted murder to rescuing the Queen, but he stumbles over the fight in the hangar. Mace exchanges looks with a couple other masters, everyone shuffling in their seats, because what causes Qui-Gon Jinn to hesitate never means anything good for them.

“Masters,” he continues slowly, “I believe the advisor to the Queen is Force sensitive.”

Mace frowns, folding his hands in front of his lips. “The Jedi are not the only Force wielders in the galaxy,” he says diplomatically to mumbles of agreement from Mundi and Billaba.

“This is true, but he showed exceptional control: if he had not been trying so hard to hide his shields, I may not have noticed at all.” He pauses, unsure if he should admit that he had not released his memories of Obi-Wan into the Force as he should have. “He appears close with both Queen Amidala and her handmaidens; he stayed behind to stall the droids so we would have time to escape.”

More shuffling and muttering, and Plo Koon leans forward in his seat, though Qui-Gon has never been able to read the Kel Dor’s expression. “He must be quite skilled, to have managed that,” he says. 

Yoda hrms, stroking his chin. “More to say about the boy, have you?”

Qui-Gon takes a deep breath and releases his anxiety into the Force, centering himself on the now. “He appears to have been given similar training as Her Majesty’s handmaidens, but he did not use the traditional weapons of the Naboo: according to handmaiden Padmé, he fights with a beskar staff.”

“Strange indeed, that is,” Yoda rumbles, eyes distant as he reads the Force. “Worried, you are?”

Qui-Gon licks his lips, a move not missed by Mace as he narrows his eyes. “I worry that the Trade Federation will attempt to use him against the Queen, especially if they are as close friends as I believe them to be. He is already an important political figure in the council of Naboo, I worry the Federation will exploit him.”

“Done something stupid, you have, hrmm?”

Startling out a chuckle, Qui-Gon gives his grandmaster a short bow of apology. “Indeed, though I do not regret it. While we were... marooned on Tatooine, I ran into a mutual friend of Chancellor Valorum.”

Mace sighs, knowing exactly who Qui-Gon refers to. He puts a hand over his eyes for a moment, as if he can simply ignore all of Qui-Gon’s faults if he can’t see them. “You hired a bounty hunter to rescue the Queen of Naboo’s royal advisor?”

“I’m afraid so, masters,” he says, smiling.

Surprisingly, it is Yaddle that pins him with her gaze next, having been uncharacteristically quiet since his arrival. “Another worry you have,” she says softly, easily silencing what mutters have continued. “Buried deep it was, ignored it, you have.”

He winces, but does not deny it. “I cannot be sure, as Messere Naberrie’s control of his own signature was too great, and he wore the traditional makeup of the Naboo government, but I... I believe he may have been Initiate Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

The silence that settles over the council is a somber one, heavy with regret and guilt that still has not left the Temple, even after years of meditation and change.

“Failed Initiate Kenobi, we did. Failed in protecting our younglings, we did. Learned, we have, hrmm, but too late for Initiate Kenobi it was, yes.” Yoda’s ears droop, the grandmaster of the Order shoulders much of their guilt personally; he had been the one to send Obi-Wan to the Agricorp, after all. “Dead, we feared him; survived a year in Bandomeer’s mines, he would not have. Yes, hrmm. Different now, you say?”

“It’s been nine years, Qui-Gon,” Billaba says kindly, and she knows better than most, what it is to lose a padawan. “We all wish he had not suffered, but perhaps your memories—”

“Please do not undervalue the blame I take for Initiate Kenobi’s disappearance,” Qui-Gon interrupts, “I have prayed to the Force these nine years that he had a swift communion with it. I do not trust my own senses when it comes to Messere Naberrie, nor would I know how Initiate Kenobi could have made it off Bandomeer before Xanatos destroyed it, so all I ask is for a second opinion.”

“If Mereel can retrieve him, that is,” Mace sighs, leaning back in his chair with an air of ancient exhaustion. Rumor had it that both he and Yoda had privately tutored the boy about his temper and his visions, and anyone that spent more than five minutes in the Créche knows of Mace Windu’s weakness for younglings. Sometimes Qui-Gon wonders why Mace himself hadn’t taken Obi-Wan as a padawan, before he remembers that it was his own bond with the initiate that stopped other masters from considering him.

Yes, Qui-Gon is brimming with fault, and he almost hopes Obi-Wan had not survived the year before Bandomeer’s destruction: he would not even mentally subject the boy to such horrors before somehow arriving on Naboo.

“Agree with Qui-Gon, I do,” Yaddle says, eyes closed. “Whisper, the Force does, more to know than is seen, there is. Know the younglings best, you did, Master Koon?”

The Kel Dor sighs, visibly releasing his grief as Qui-Gon should have done years ago. “Indeed, I make it a point to know all in the Créche, all those who have been Found. I was his Finder, I will know Kenobi’s signature.”

“Settled it is, then.” Yoda nods in satisfaction, but Mace still stares Qui-Gon down.

“Will you bring him to the temple when he arrives on Coruscant?” he asks, and Qui-Gon can’t help but wince.

“If... If Messere Naberrie is indeed Obi-Wan Kenobi, it is unlikely that he will listen to me.”

“Then I will request an audience with Her Majesty,” Plo Koon says, folding his hands under his chin.

“ _If_ Mereel can find him,” Mace stresses to murmurs of agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ship was aggressively not supposed to happen, and Yet. 
> 
> some points of note!:  
> this story is pro-Jedi Order but calls out nonsense actions such as those by Qui-Gon.  
> Ages have been fumbled around a lil, as follows — Obi: 22 – Padmé: 14 – Jango: 27  
> I've undoubtedly been inspired by the absolutely amazing works that already exist for this ship, which I would link if hyperlinks were working, so check them out in my bookmarks!  
> Title is from Aurora's _Hunger_.


	2. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still bewildered and feeling all the softer for it, Obi-Wan ducks his head in thanks. “Thank you. I apologise if I... came across as ungrateful. It’s been a long few weeks.”
> 
> Jaster waves away his apologies. “There’s no need, ad, us Mandalorians know better than most, reacting out of fear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Mando’a:**  
>  _buir_ — “parent”, gender neutral  
>  _Mand’alor_ — “Sole ruler”, contended ruler of Mandalore.  
>  _aliit_ — “family”, “clan” (in this case, lineage)  
>  _ad/e_ — “child/children”, gender neutral  
>  _Haat Mando’ade_ — lit. “true children of Mandalore”, True Mandalorians (slang shortened to Haat'ad/e)  
>  _‘ika_ — diminutive suffix, similar to the suffix “ita/o” in Spanish. generally used only by close family and friends  
>  _beskar’gam_ — Armour made of beskar, “Mandalorian Iron” that was actually probably a steel alloy  
>  _beskar’vik_ — a staff made of beskar, with ‘vik’ from ‘bevik’ or stick.  
>  _“Naak’olar, naak’dayn”_ — “Peace within, peace without”, Mando’a blessing before entering one’s home.  
>  _aruetii_ — “outsider”, “foreigner”, “traitor”

**I** t’s only after reaching out as far as he can in the Force that Obi-Wan realises he can’t sense droids the same way he can sense organic beings, which is making it increasingly difficult to count their numbers. Kneeling on the folded mattress from his cot, Obi-Wan attempts to push his senses even further than the immediate cellblock, noting Neimoidian and human alike on his way towards the throne room.

He frowns, because that’s definitely Governor Bibble speaking with Nute Gunray in the empty council chamber, but the Trade Federation should not have skipped over Obi-Wan for any sort of negotiation of surrender. Gunray obviously knows of Obi-Wan’s position, to have put him in the palace holding cells rather than one of the camps; that he would choose to speak to Governor Bibble now of all times is... concerning. Clearly the Trade Federation isn’t above deception, and he can only imagine how they plan to use this against Padmé.

An image of the flight hangar flashes through Obi-Wan’s mind, deepening his frown. His meditations rarely allow him space to become distracted into memories, but he has no idea what the Force is trying to tell him, otherwise.

Refocusing, Obi-Wan sinks deeper into himself and begins to teach his mind to recognise droids as well as out of place humans as they move through his palace, making a mental tally as he goes. Foolishly, the Trade Federation is relying heavily on B1 battle droids to boost their numbers: he can only count a few actual Neimoidians, and if someone were to take out the droid control ship...

Red doors, opening and closing behind his eyes, the hum of the Theed power generator as loud in his ears as if he were in the complex itself. But he’s never been there, has had no cause to have been given a tour even with his council position — he should definitely not know what it looks like in such detail, to know exactly how many seconds there are between the blast doors’ rotations.

_Stop being vague,_ he tries to tell the Force and only gets the amorphous sense of someone laughing at him for his troubles.

He senses as Governor Bibble is led from the palace once again, flanked rather worryingly by B2 droids that are even harder for Obi-Wan to sense than the B1s. Something in their programming, perhaps? A lack of individuality that makes them a blur in the Force?

A thought for another time, he reminds himself, tracing his way back to the throne room in his mind. The Viceroy is still there with his coward of a second in command, and a darker part of Obi-Wan is pleased to see them so nervous, so worried for the outcome of their own invasion. 

A green lightsaber blade cuts in front of his vision, striking against a red lightstaff and sending plasma sparks into the air. Those blast doors rotate again, and Obi-Wan’s feet are not quick enough, his padawan braid falling over his shoulder in his haste—

Growling, Obi-Wan opens his eyes to his overbright cell, lamps lit even so early in the day. A single B1 droid stands guard at the end of the cellblock, boredly blocking the sole door out of the prison hold, and it would be all too easy for Obi-Wan to Force-crush them. He knows better now, though, had learned his lesson nine years ago not to rush headlong into an escape attempt without all the facts; his right knee twinges at the memory, and he gingerly gets back up to his feet to stretch his legs.

It would be foolish to think he could fight his way out of Theed, even if he were to somehow get his staff back, and _even_ then, he had no way of contacting Padmé or the Jedi. No, he would wait it out, he decides, dropping onto his cot and settling against the wall; the people of Naboo will not last forever, but he must have faith in his Queen to get them the aid they need.

Closing his eyes against the sunlight streaming in through the window above him, Obi-Wan gingerly places his hand over his right temple and attempts to speed up the healing, but he’d never been very good at it, despite Jobal’s best intentions. He is thankful Sabé is the one with Padmé, then, if she should need healing on their way to Coruscant, and Force forbid she did.

**"W** ho was that?" Jango demands as soon as Jaster boards the AI-AT they’ve been calling home for the past year, the troubled look on his _buir’s_ face far more telling than he would have allowed when he was _Mand’alor._

He doesn’t try to hide his expression when he notices Jango leaning against the speeder in the hold, but doesn’t answer until he’s closed and locked the hatch. “We’re heading to Naboo,” he says in that vague way of his, when he’s too wrapped up in his own head to think too hard about his words. 

Jango sighs and sticks out his leg to stop Jaster from walking past him. “And why in Corellian Hells would we do that? ‘Thought the Guild didn’t want any of us crossing the Trade Federation.”

Jaster purses his lips, retrieving his helmet from the stack of crates next to the speeder that he’d removed to repair one of the coolant lines. “Normally I would agree with the Guild, getting involved in planetary disputes certainly makes all our jobs harder, but this... is unavoidable.”

“Another one of your ‘feelings’, then?” Jango asks, standing to follow Jaster up the flight of stairs to the command deck. 

With a hmm, his _buir_ nods and drops into the pilot’s seat, starting to flip a few switches to test the coolant line. “This is important,” he says quietly, “in ways we don’t understand yet. We’ve been hired by Qui-Gon Jinn to retrieve the Queen of Naboo’s advisor before the Trade Federation can decide that he suits their needs better dead. Jinn is sending the detail—”

“You took a job from Dooku’s _aliit?”_ Jango interrupts, having to remind himself that he loves Jaster and can’t eject him out the airlock. “Buir, have you lost your _mind?”_

Jaster only barely manages not to flinch, glancing up at Jango apologetically; Galidraan is still a sore subject, even nine years later, and Jango knows Jaster wouldn’t have taken a job he didn’t believe in, especially from someone of Dooku’s lineage. It doesn’t stop the phantom weight of a collar around Jango’s neck, the illusion of binders on his wrists, but it’s easier, now.

“I know you don’t understand when I get these... ‘feelings’, as you say, but please trust me, _ad’ika:_ this is important.”

Jaster swears up and down that he’s not Force sensitive —Jango isn’t entirely convinced he’s even been _tested—_ but his _buir’s_ instincts haven’t steered them wrong yet; they had only taken the job at Galidraan because the _Haat Mando’ade_ had desperately needed the money, or Jaster would have called the whole thing off at first whiff. Jango spent too many years on that spice freighter to doubt Jaster now.

Wordlessly, he takes the copilot’s seat and starts the pre-flight sequence, trying to ignore Jaster’s entirely too-soft smile. Satisfied with his repair, Jaster follows his lead and inputs Naboo’s coordinates, and Jango feels a swell of affection that he’s learned to keep off his face, lest Jaster try to hug him like some sort of deep sea cephalopod. 

The situation on Naboo is worse than either he or Jaster had thought. His _buir_ is too skilled a pilot for the blockade to have been a problem, and the swamps around Theed provide ample cover for the AI-AT, but upon entering the city, it quickly becomes obvious that this isn’t a simple trade embargo, it’s a full-scale occupation.

The streets are crawling with droids, forcing Jango and Jaster to take to the roofs in hopes of going unnoticed, but even then, the Naboo clearly hadn’t anticipated needing to structure their buildings so that two full-armoured Mandalorians could jump between them without making too much noise.

Luckily, the B1 droids the Trade Federation somehow decided were good enough for an army are dumb as rocks, and notice nothing. It’s two hours before they see another sapient being, a couple of scared citizens being herded towards one of the camps the droids have erected on the outskirts of the city, and the whole place feels closer to a ghost town than the bustling hub it should be.

And Jango isn’t a good person, he takes bounties from just about anybody, kills adults indiscriminately, but he remembers the years after Galidraan like the brand on his shoulder that never healed properly. He doesn’t involve himself in interplanetary disputes, steers clear of wars and petty battles, but the Naboo do not have armies; they barely have _guards,_ volunteers with a couple of weeks of training, and seeing the Trade Federation take advantage of an innocence Jango hasn’t seen anywhere else in the Galaxy makes his blood _boil._

They aren’t here to rescue citizens, as much as both he and his _buir_ want to burn the camps to the ground, and Jaster is maddeningly gentle in his silent reminders to stay on task. Anyone else, and Jango would have wrung his neck for touching him so softly.

Jango may have the reputation of diving into fights blasters blazing, but you don’t make it in their line of work relying on brawn: they move swiftly over the rooftops, taking note of patrol rotations and droid models, and, even with the droids’ forewarning that a ship had made it planetside, they make it to the palace without a single altercation.

Jaster lets him lead as they scale a garden wall near the front of the palace, trusting Jango’s better hearing and softer steps. He gives quiet instructions as they move through the halls towards the throne room, directing Jango from the lifesign reader they’d sold an entire starfighter to purchase. Small mercies, actually, that with so many droids, it’s easy to find any organic life signatures and follow them to the only room in the palace occupied by them.

Jinn had warned them that the Naboo like open and airy halls, and they keep this in mind as they duck through a servants’ door into the throne room, keeping low to the ground to hide behind one of the great marble pillars lining the hall.

The group of Neimoidians and droids are too preoccupied with the single human in their midst to notice Jango and Jaster creep as close as they dare, and Jango notices with disgust that it’s a very _young_ human, belying their elegant dress.

Dark blue robes brush the floor, clearly of the highest make, but their edges are dirty and trodden on, and there’s a giant smear of white all along one sleeve. Looking at the human’s face, Jango surmises he had attempted to wipe off what was surely an exorbitant amount of makeup — and blood, he notes, but the wound is on the wrong side of the boy’s face for Jango to see it properly. 

A Neimoidian that could only be Nute Gunray leans into the boy’s space, and for some unfathomable reason, the boy _doesn’t back down._

“Messere, I assure you, we can do much worse than send you to the camps,” Gunray sneers oilily, poorly covering his fear with anger.

“You do not frighten me,” the boy says softly, as if he did not in fact have twelve different blasters aimed in his direction. 

Gunray grabs his chin, and the kid actually reacts appropriately by flinching, but the glare he turns on his captor more than makes up for it. 

“That’s the Viceroy,” Jaster says over internal comm, nodding to Gunray. 

“‘Thought you said this was the only room with organic life,” he returns, craning his neck to try and see if there’s anybody they’ve missed, but there are too many columns in the way to be sure. 

“Give me the royal transport’s identification code!” the Viceroy snaps while Jaster checks the reader again. 

“You overestimate your _power,_ Viceroy,” the kid spits, jerking his chin free. “The senate will see right through your ‘treaty’, your little game is almost over. Naboo was once ruled by cowards like you, and we will not settle for it again.”

“Then you will watch your people die, Messere Naberrie. Commander! Take his lordship to Camp 4 with the others.”

“Roger, roger,” a yellow-painted B1 droid says immediately, two others lowering their blasters to grab Naberrie by the arms and start to march him towards the largest set of doors on the other end of the hall.

Jango ducks further behind the column as they pass, but Naberrie’s eyes snap to his as if drawn straight to them. Though his expression gives nothing away, Jango can still see the shock, the split-second of terror that gives way to a curious confusion, all boy-like and young, and Jango is going to kriffing _kill_ the Viceroy.

They wait until both the droids and the nervously hunched Neimoidians shuffle from the throne room before sneaking back through the servants’ door, and quickly follow Naberrie’s moving signature in unspoken agreement. 

“Do the Naboo get off on electing child leaders?” Jango asks as they climb back out of the building and into the courtyards. 

“It’s just like Jinn to leave this out,” Jaster grumbles, as if it could mask his growing worry as a _buir;_ everyone in the Galaxy knows Mereel has a planet-sized soft spot for _ade_ and foundlings, and Jango hopes for Jinn’s sake that Naberrie isn’t a minor, or the Temple might be losing another master Jedi to the _Mand’alor._

When they catch up to Naberrie’s escort in one of the smaller courtyards, Naberrie’ eyes find Jango immediately, despite him hiding behind a planter just ahead of the group. Jango raises a brow inside his helmet, intrigued by the flash of recognition on Naberrie’s face.

Then Naberrie’s gaze flicks to the blue-painted droid on his right, and it takes Jango a moment to realise Naberrie is telling him to take out that one first. Upon closer inspection, the blue droid is holding its blaster against Naberrie’s ribs, Jango infinitely amused by the caution the Viceroy is taking with some finely-dressed pup.

Jaster must see their exchange, wasting no time giving Jango the signal and blasting the head off the blue droid.

“Whoaaa!” the commander droid yells, whipping its blaster around in the direction of Jaster’s shot, but Jango doesn’t get the chance to retaliate before Naberrie is wrenching his other arm free and swiping his leg out to trip the commander. He grabs the baton the droid had been carrying and in a single movement shakes it out into a full fighting staff, the Nabooian sunlight bouncing off the blue metal like _beskar’gam._

Not about to let himself be outdone, Jango fires his grappling line and yanks the regular droid to the ground, as Naberrie swings his staff in a short arc to take the commander’s head clean off. Naberrie sheds his outer robe and, between one breath and the next, is right in Jango’s face with the point of his staff pressed under the chin of Jango’s helmet, easily slid between the chestplate and gorget like he’s taken down Mandoalorians before.

“Who are you?” Naberrie hisses, close enough to fog Jango’s visor, and he certainly sounds capable of following through on his implicit threat; Jango flicks his eyes down to the staff and feels a sharp edge pressing against his throat, and where the kriff had he gotten a kriffing _beskar’vik._

“We’re here to rescue you,” Jaster says, leveling his blaster to the side of Naberrie’s head, but if you hurt my boy, I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

Glaring hard enough to make Jango hot under the collar, Naberrie slowly and carefully steps back, raising his hands in surrender but not dropping his staff. “You’ll forgive me if I find a simple rescue hard to believe,” he says in that refined, soft way, and Jango realises he’s not even winded. 

The source of all the blood has reopened though, a ferociously deep burn from his right temple into his hairline — it’s going to need a lot more than a simple bacta patch, if they can even get the crazy advisor to the AI-AT. Jaster tilts his head, clearly coming to the same conclusion and nodding to confirm Jango’s suspicions: the kid had taken a blaster bolt to the kriffing _face._

“Your Jedi friend Jinn hired us to get you to Coruscant,” his _buir_ adds, and had they not been looking for it, they might have missed the way Naberrie tenses at the name.

He looks between Jango and Jaster, all cold calculation, before slowly lowering both his hands and his staff. “The Queen made it safely, then?”

With a glance to Jango, Jaster clearly decides lying won’t get them anywhere, and carefully says, “We do not know. The _jetii_ hired us on Tatooine, but I can’t imagine they stuck around much longer than we did; they should have reached Coruscant by now. We can contact your senator once we get back to our ship, there’s too much interference from the Trade Federation here.”

The implied “we should hurry” does not go unnoticed, and Naberrie nods shortly. “I will follow,” he says easily enough, but makes a show of keeping his _beskar’vik_ in his dominant hand. 

Naberrie pauses at the bottom of the ramp to the AI-AT, collapsing his staff before following Jango the rest of the way up, the intentionality of the action making Jango eye him suspiciously. 

As if in challenge, Naberrie taps his staff on the lintel of the hatch and murmurs so quietly Jango almost misses it, _“Naak’olar, naak’dayn.”_

Jango can feel his _buir’s_ glare from further into the ship; for an _aruetii_ to speak such words, to even _know_ such words sets them both on edge rather than at ease like the blessing is supposed to. Naberrie meets Jaster’s gaze squarely, and Jango is almost thankful he’s never been on the other side of him in a political arena, when he exudes such calm confidence and easy defiance. 

He knows what he said, he knows what that implies, and he is not apologising for it.

And Jaster doesn’t meet the challenge, for now, saying nothing as he beckons them the rest of the way inside. Bewildered at the exchange and feeling like a silent diplomatic agreement had been reached without his input, Jango closes the hatch and engages the airlock. 

On the command deck, Jaster is setting up a holocall, Naberrie standing with his hands in his sleeves and his staff nowhere in sight. Jango would be worried, especially about that pointy end, but he also can’t think Naberrie is stupid enough to try and hijack their ship, and allows the poor kid his comfort.

Naberrie glances at the security footage pulled up on a side monitor, taking in the various holding cells and guest quarters. Jango sees the moment he recognises the immobilizing bed in the lowest deck as his eyebrows jump up, but still he does not look afraid. “I do hope you’re not planning on using that for me,” he says conversationally, and Jaster laughs as he steps away from the console to let Naberrie put in the comm code.

“No, no, there’s a perfectly normal bunk on the main deck for you. We need to leave soon, but it’s best if you let Coruscant know we’re coming. Make it quick, alright?”

“Of course,” he gives a little bow, and Jaster nods to Jango to keep an eye on him before ducking into the cockpit. 

Naberrie finishes the comm code and strategically angles himself so the worst of his burn is hidden from the camera, Jango clocking the move with narrowed eyes; Naberrie hasn’t complained about it yet, but he can’t imagine it’s easy to ignore. Jango leans against the wall just out of frame, watching with interest as Naberrie visibly calms himself even further, something shuttering behind his eyes and making him all the colder for it.

The senator answers on the second request, holo flicking to life, but stuttering horribly from the distance and the Trade Federation’s interference. _“Messere, I cannot express how delighted I am to see that you are alright.”_

“Senator Palpatine,” Naberrie inclines his head, his accent slipping more thoroughly into High Naboo. “Has Her Majesty made contact with Coruscant?”

Palpatine frowns, checking something out of frame. _“I’m afraid not, Messere; I was under the impression the Trade Federation had cut off communication?”_

“Queen Amidala, Force willing, will be arriving on Coruscant within the day.” Naberrie glances at Jango, somehow expressing his question with a single raised eyebrow, and Jango holds up three fingers. “According to my pilot, I will join you in three day’s time.”

The senator visibly winces. _“Messere, is that wise?”_ he asks, wringing his hands. _“Surely the blockade—”_

“Where my Queen goes, I go,” Naberrie says firmly, something in his tone making Jango want to shudder; perhaps he didn’t like his senator? “Please tell Chancellor Valorum that I seek his conference when I arrive on Coruscant.”

_“Of course, Messere Naberrie,”_ Palpatine ducks his head as if chastised and checks off camera again. _“Please be careful, Obi-Wan,”_ he says, and sounds genuinely worried. _“There is unrest in the senate, assassination attempts and rumours of the Trade Federation throwing their money around—”_

“We will confer about that when I am with Her Majesty,” Naberrie cuts him off, “I do not discuss politics without my Queen.”

_“Of course, Messere. Please travel safely.”_

“Thank you, Senator. I will see you in a few days.” They bow to each other, and Naberrie steps forward to switch off the comm. Naberrie takes one look at Jango before snorting. “I do not trust those that buy their way into power,” he says by way of explanation, and lets out a long, slow sigh, that self-assured mask slipping enough that he actually looks his age, looks _exhausted._ How long had he been in Trade Federation custody?

“When’s the last time you slept?” Jango hears himself ask, as his _buir_ is returning from the cockpit without his helmet.

Naberrie blinks and actually has to _think about it._ “I believe I...” He rubs his temple. “Forice, I don’t know.”

Jaster scowls and gently starts to usher Naberrie back down the steps to their tiny medbay, Naberrie going along with a confused expression that would be cute if it weren’t half covered in blood. “Well, let’s get you cleaned up, and then you can bunk down,” Jaster says gruffly.

At the bottom of the stairs, Naberrie digs in his heels before entering the medbay properly, frowning deeply. “I’m sure Ser Jinn did not specify tending to my injuries—”

“You’re not our prisoner, Messere,” Jaster cuts in before Naberrie can say anything else that would convince him to cap Jinn on sight. “No, Jinn did not specify, but I’m a merc, not a slave runner. Now hop up on the bed.”

Naberrie looks up the stairs to Jango for support, and Jango quite enjoys giving him an expressionless shrug, getting a cute scowl for his trouble as Naberrie follows Jaster into the room.

Jango sets himself up in the doorway, arms crossed, and watches Jaster pick through their supplies; it isn’t much, they don’t tend to get injured with their _beskar’gam,_ but he finds what he’s looking for and wheels a stool over to Naberrie sat on the medbed. 

“This really isn’t necessary,” Naberrie grumbles, even as he lets Jaster start to clean up his face with a cloth soaked in steriliser. 

Jaster snorts. “How old are you?” he asks instead, Jango noting that though Naberrie doesn’t flinch, he purses his lips until they’re white. He seems to know when arguing won’t get him anywhere, though; a true politician, then. 

“Twenty-two standard,” he mumbles, right eye fluttering as Jaster gets close to it with the cloth. 

“Corellian Hells,” Jaster says, exchanging a quick glance with Jango. “Is everyone in your government a kriffing kid?” 

Puffing up like a startled bird, Naberrie still somehow manages to keep his expression under control enough to raise a brow at Jaster. “No, but those on Naboo are taught politics from very young,” he says, accepting another rag to get the rest of his makeup off the other side of his face. 

Jango unclips his helmet and drops it onto the desk in the corner, leaning on it and saying, “Obi-Wan is not a Nabooian name.”

Something like fear flashes across his expression. “You’re Mandalorian,” he says with a hint of desperation, _“‘Aliit ori’shya tal’din.” Family is more than blood._

“It was just an observation.”

“Calm yourself, _ad,_ we are not judging you for your heritage,” Jaster is quick to cut in. “But I’m very interested to know where you’ve learned so much about us.” Not to mention the ease with which he speaks Mando’a, the Kalevalen accent clear as if he had spoken it since birth. Now there’s a thought.

Jango straightens. “Wait, are you...?”

“No, I’m not _Mando’ad,”_ Naberrie shakes his head. “I was Stewjoni before I came to Naboo.”

“Is it Nabooian standard to teach our language, then?” Jaster asks, having to soak another whole cloth in steriliser to even start on the blood in his hair. 

“No,” he says, eyes darting to the door. “But It is not my place to speak of those I learned it from. If they wish to disclose that information with Mandalorian—”

“No need to go all politician on us,” Jango mutters, crossing his arms again, and by some miracle earns a _smile_ from their mark.

Though it quickly disappears as Jaster curses under his breath. “This is deep, kid,” he says, inspecting the now-clean blaster wound, and from what Jango can see, Naberrie is lucky his skull isn’t exposed. “Even with bacta, you’ll need two layers of stitches; it’s going to scar something awful.”

“Oh no,” Naberrie deadpans, “whatever will I do without my pretty face.”

Jango stares at him and Jaster startles out an incredibly unattractive snort, the sound all too loud in the tiny room, and the _aruetii_ fucking grins like a nexu that got the canary.

“Alright, alright,” Jaster chuckles, setting about prepping his needles. “Just don’t come crying back to me when Her Majesty fires you for someone prettier.”

“She wouldn’t dare,” he responds far too confidently, winking at Jango over Jaster’s shoulder. Jango decides that whatever Jinn is paying them, it isn’t nearly enough. 

**O** bi-Wan’s crazy rescuers indeed give him one of the small guest quarters rather than the holding cells down the hall, with directions to the head and sonic showers. Jaster gives him a ration bar at the door with a small smile.

“My _ad’ika_ and I have the ship functions covered, just get some rest, Messere,” he says, also giving him a simple blue shirt that’s clearly made for much broader shoulders. 

Still bewildered and feeling all the softer for it, Obi-Wan ducks his head in thanks. “Thank you. I apologise if I... came across as ungrateful. It’s been a long few weeks.”

Jaster waves away his apologies. “There’s no need, _ad,_ us Mandalorians know better than most, reacting out of fear.” There’s history to that statement that Obi-Wan will never share with him, but he can make a few connections and let the sentiment humble him. “Don’t lay on your right side, alright?”

Obi-Wan chuckles and bows again. “Of course not. Please rouse me if you have any questions.”

Jaster pats his shoulder with a smile that’s almost sad before leaving him to his quarters and returning to the command deck.

Glancing down the hall to the bathrooms, Obi-Wan desperately wants to shower, but honestly doesn’t know if he won’t fall asleep in the sonic, and he decides cleaning can wait until he’s slept a few hours.

A red door, opening and closing behind his eyes, the hum of the Theed power generator as loud in his ears as if he were in the complex itself. He blocks a red lightstaff with his _beskar’vik,_ barely avoiding losing his hand to the Zabrak. Someone groans behind Obi-Wan _—Jinn—_ but the Zabrak takes no notice of it, bearing down on Obi-Wan with a vengeance.

And it is in vengeance, it was never about stopping Jinn or the Queen, Maul is here for Obi-Wan, Maul is here because Sidious asked him to be, but he would not have been anywhere else when he learned who was escorting Queen Amidala back to Theed—

Savage’s death is too fresh in both their minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Retconned the one line about Jar Jar in the last chapter cause I completely forgot I have him elsewhere for this.


	3. Purple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Mando’a:**  
>  _buir_ — “parent”, gender neutral   
> _beskar’gam_ — Armour made of _beskar_ , “Mandalorian Iron” that was actually probably a steel alloy  
>  _osik_ — impolite form of “dung”, shit  
>  _beskar’vik_ — a sharp staff made of beskar, with ‘vik’ from _‘bevik’_ or stick.   
> _buy’ce_ — “helmet”, in this context specifically one made of beskar (some forms of canon say Jedi can’t read minds/use mind tricks through beskar so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)  
>  _Haat Mando’ade_ — lit. “true children of Mandalore”, True Mandalorians (slang shortened to _Haat'ad/e)_   
> _jetiise_ — “Jedi” pl., sing. _jetii_  
>  _dar’manda_ — a state of not being Mandalorian, a Mandalorian that has lost their heritage and therefore themselves  
>  _Mand’alor_ — “Sole ruler”, contended ruler of Mandalore.  
>  _Manda’yaim_ — the planet Mandalore
> 
> **  
> _*implied panic attack warning, moderate descriptions of ptsd-related trigger responses*_  
> **

**J** aster is just heading to bed when Jango makes his way down to the main deck to wake Naberrie for firstmeal, and part of Jango wishes his _buir_ would stay up to act as a buffer between them, but he’s also twenty-seven standard and refuses to run away from (mostly) harmless politicians. On long haul jumps, they try to always have someone awake, not trusting the autopilot completely, but they also make sure to eat one meal a day together; he tries not to think about why Jaster had decided Naberrie is going to follow Jango’s schedule.

The door to Naberrie’s borrowed quarters is open, mentally pulling Jango up short, but he peeks around the doorframe as if unbothered, a greeting on his lips.

Naberrie is kneeling in the middle of the floor, seated on his heels with his eyes closed, and it takes Jango entirely too long to realise what he’s doing. Naberrie has pulled the pillow off the bunk to cushion his knees, and had kindly removed the pillowcase, the forethought of such an action rather telling of his character. He’s dressed in the same trousers as the day before, but also in a plain blue tunic that looks suspiciously like one of Jango’s; and because Naberrie is a twig, it hangs looser than a nightshirt, exposing a surprisingly-toned chest but also looking rather ridiculously large.

He doesn’t react at all when Jango raps his knuckles on the doorframe, and his stomach sinks when he sees Naberrie had obviously made use of the sonic, his red hair much longer than Jango had realised the night before: it easily falls past his shoulders, somewhere between ringlets and waves, and it’s with this thought that Jango realises he’s staring.

He knocks louder. “Hey. Naberrie.”

Neberrie blinks back to himself with a little pinch between his brows, though he quickly slips into a smile as he looks up at Jango in the doorway. “Ah, good morning. At least, I think it’s morning.” He leans over to check the chrono on the little table on the corner, hair falling over his shoulder, and Jango looks to the ceiling for patience. This is Jaster’s fault, and as soon as they drop the kid off on Coruscant, Jango is going to buy his own ship like they had planned for Tatooine. 

“Jaster’s just gone to bed, I was about to make firstmeal,” he says as Naberrie eases to his feet, Jango clocking the stiffness as he does; the floor isn’t very comfortable, he supposes, raising a brow as Naberrie slips into his boots.

“I’m afraid I’m not too good in the kitchen, but I’d like to help, if that’s alright,” Naberrie says with a tiny smile that makes Jango wish he had his helmet on. 

He begrudgingly lets Naberrie help him fry some tubers to go with the jerky rations and cheap caf they’d stocked up on while planetside, and it seems politicians on Naboo aren’t entirely useless. They eat in silence, though Jango suspects he’s the one making it feel so awkward, because Naberrie sits at the conference table he and Jaster haven’t had time to change out yet with a blank sort of smile on his face, and makes no complaint over the simple meal. 

Jango remembers the flinch when Gunray had grabbed his face, and wonders if Naberrie hasn’t always lived in the lap of luxury. Or maybe he’s just that polite.

When Jango moves upstairs to check on the autopilot and the repaired coolant line, Naberrie disappears down the hall to his quarters, but then joins Jango in the cockpit with a datapad and settles at the nav terminal as if he’s always done so. He offers a small smile at Jango’s raised brow, but certainly doesn’t apologise.

“The invasion has caused quite a lot of paperwork to pile up,” he says with a chuckle, tucking one leg underneath himself. “And I can’t imagine I’ll get very much done once we reach Coruscant.”

“You’re doing paperwork.”

“Mm, yes, unfortunately.”

“While on the run from the Trade Federation.”

Naberrie raises an eyebrow right back. “I think you underestimate how much paperwork my position entails.”

For some reason, that makes Jango laugh as he turns back to the console to adjust their trajectory slightly. “Well, if I needed any more reason not to become a politician.”

Naberrie laughs as well, soft and warm, less restrained than it had been the day before, and Jango is glad he had turned around. “It’s not all bad,” Naberrie says quietly, already sounding absorbed in his work, and Jango leaves him be.

It’s well into the night cycle, Naberrie having gone to bed hours ago, that Jango realises he has no idea what Naberrie’s job actually is. Advisor is so vague, and he clearly held a significant amount of power for Gunray to have been so threatened by him, but neither of those explained the close combat training or his familiarity with _beskar’gam’s_ weak points. 

“I do a lot of things,” a blanket-wrapped Naberrie yawns, dropping into the copilot’s chair and scaring the _osik_ out of Jango. Smiling sleepily, Naberrie flicks a switch on the console to raise the temperature of the cockpit slightly, and pulls a foot up onto the chair. “Your thoughts are very loud.”

Jango resists the urge to slap his hand away from the console, settling for glaring at him. “So you can read minds now?” he bites in hopes of hiding the terror of such a thought. No one should be able to sneak up on him anymore, he’d sworn it wouldn’t happen again.

“Only when someone is projecting them,” Naberrie says with another yawn, Jango noting he doesn’t have his _beskar’vik_ on him this time. “Have you slept yet? Your shields have been rather strong before now, even without your _buy’ce.”_

And there he goes again, knowing more than he should, but it does explain the meditation. “You’re Force sensitive.”

“I’d be surprised if Ser Jinn hadn’t mentioned it.”

“He didn’t.” From the stories Jaster has told of the man, it’s not exactly surprising that he would have left an important detail like that out, not when he’d left out so many other things. 

Naberrie blinks at him, and Jango doesn’t need the Force to know his surprise is genuine; it’s quite unbecoming of a politician, actually, to be so sincere with one’s emotions, but Jango had already suspected a personal stake in this whole rescue, and this just further supports it.

“I apologise for the misunderstanding, then, I did not mean to keep it from you,” he murmurs, “With your _buir,_ I thought surely...”

Jango perks up despite himself. “So he really is Force sensitive? He’s not just superstitious?”

Naberrie smiles helplessly. “Without a midichlorian test, I can’t be sure of how much, but yes, on some level he can feel and read the Force.”

Could all Force sensitives sense each other, then? Know who is like them at first flush? The _Haat Mando’ade_ never did sensitivity tests, and Jango imagines few of the New Mandalorians even believe in the Force, so he hasn’t had cause to interact with very many Force users that aren’t _jetiise._

“Can all Force users pick each other out in a crowd?” he asks carefully, wondering just how much danger they’ve somehow avoided, if Jaster is actually sensitive. Corellian Hells, places like Tatooine are suddenly much more sinister than they had been yesterday.

Naberrie winces and drops his eyes in a way that sets off little alarms in Jango’s mind. “No, that’s... that’s something I taught myself to be able to do.”

And Jango knows better than to push a trauma like that, settling for reaching over the console to spin a knob to turn the temperature back down. Naberrie’s lips almost twitch into a pout — as if Jango needed more reason to despise him. Kriffing baby politicians.

But Naberrie smiles and leans into his seat, stretching his right leg out as far as the console will allow. Jango’s made a living on being able to read other’s microexpressions, though he can’t remember if the skill developed before or after the spice freighter, and despite the smile, the weariness at the corner of Naberrie’s eyes almost makes Jango _worry._

If Naberrie sees him looking, he makes no mention of it, pulling his arms free of his blanket to start gathering his hair into a complicated twist at the back of his head. Something like terror makes Jango freeze and stare, as Naberrie pulls a bit of coated wire out of nowhere and expertly uses it to secure the twist.

“Where did you get that?” Jango hears himself ask, startling Naberrie.

“In the tool crate in the hold,” he says, somehow making a smirk look apologetic; at Jango’s furrowed brows, he sniffs in offense. “You and your _buir_ both have short hair, it’s not as if I would find a hairtie lying around. I was actually hoping for a bit of string, but you’re both maddeningly utilitarian. Haven’t you ever heard of a junk drawer?”

Honestly feeling a little drunk, Jango doesn’t quite know what to say to that, and pretends to be drawn to something on the console so he doesn’t have to keep seeing his own shirt hang off Naberrie like that. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he finally says, when the silence has stretched on too long to be comfortable.

Shrugging, Naberrie stifles another yawn. “You felt lonely.”

Kriff. “‘Don’t suppose I could pay you to stop reading my mind?”

“No more than I could pay you to remove your _beskar’gam.”_

Jango frowns at the console and refuses to look at him as he asks, “Your accent. Kalevalan.”

“Mm,” Naberrie agrees easy enough, sinking into the chair and wrapping himself up tighter in his blanket. “Are you from Mandalore?”

“Concord Dawn.”

“I’ve never been.”

“You’re avoiding the implicit question.”

“You’re avoiding my avoidance.”

The brass on this one. “I can see why you do so well in politics,” Jango mutters, reaching up to fix the flashing light warning him of the approaching day cycle. 

When he glances back, Naberrie is shaking his head and pushing himself to his feet. “Not all of us are born for going on adventures,” Naberrie says, and it is not unkind, just... achingly honest. “Thank you for humouring me, your shields are doing much better now.” And with that, he leaves Jango in the cockpit wondering what the kriff just happened.

**O** bi-Wan runs his robes through the sonic washer on the second night, and actually manages to get the makeup out of the sleeve enough that you can’t see the faint stain if you aren’t looking for it. He washes the borrowed tunic as well, leaving it folded neatly with the other clean clothes in the little wash room, and tries not to miss the rough-spun texture of it.

On the last morning before descent to Coruscant, he meditates and then goes through his stretches carefully, his knees space-sore with long-healed wounds aching; it takes a little longer than usual to get his body feeling more like itself, Obi-Wan cursing how cold spacetravel is as he works his shoulders back into their usual nimbleness. 

He has just enough pins leftover from the last time he had had the handmaidens to do his hair to work it into something a little more fitting for someone on the Naboo council. Not nearly as fancy as Rabé can somehow magick it, but he manages to shape the bit of blue wire enough that you can’t tell what it is, securing the half-up twist he favours to keep his bangs out of his eyes; he uses most of the pins to hide the burn that Jaster had only just taken the stitches out of.

Descent is smooth, smoother than Obi-Wan is used to, honestly, and he joins Jango in the hold feeling more himself than he has in days. Jango poorly hides his jerk of surprise, but is back in his helmet and Obi-Wan can’t tell exactly what it means.

He hasn’t been avoiding Jango, per se, they’ve eaten most meals together and Obi-Wan has been catching up on his paperwork at the navcon in the cockpit, but he hasn’t tried to engage in conversation since he had foolishly stuck his nose where it didn’t belong and helped fortify Jango’s mental shields. He doubts Jango has noticed, he feels more Force null than most rocks, but Obi-Wan has been keeping tabs on and strengthening Padmé and the handmaidens’ for so long that it had been difficult _not_ to leave his shields stronger than he’d found them.

And if Jango isn’t going to say anything about it, Obi-Wan certainly isn’t going to offer up that information.

Luckily, they don’t have to wait long for Jaster to land their ship on a dock he’s sure is much nicer than the Mandalorians are used to, and the rather alarmingly large entourage waiting for them saves Obi-Wan from having to try and make small talk with his rescuers. 

He waits until Jaster joins them at the ramp, though, before stepping out to greet Chancellor Valorum and Senator Palpatine. This high up with his back to the Temple, Obi-Wan can almost pretend it isn’t Coruscant.

“Messere Naberrie, I cannot express what a relief it is to finally see you safe,” Palpatine all but simpers, and Obi-Wan throws up his own shields against the grey miasma that follows the man around.

“It’s a relief to be out of hyperspace,” he agrees softly, before giving Valorum a small bow. “Supreme Chancellor, it is an honour to have you here to welcome me.”

Though they have never met in person, there have been a few holocalls between them, and Valorum inclines his head with a sincere smile. “We have been in discussions far too long for me not to give you the same courtesy as I gave Her Majesty.” He looks over Obi-Wan’s shoulder to the AI-AT where Jaster and Jango still wait, and gives a bemused shake of his head. “When Qui-Gon told me he’d hired Jaster, I almost didn’t believe him,” he admits quietly with a small laugh. “It seems rather far fetched for them to have been on Tatooine at the same time, no?”

“I’m also assured Ser Jinn does not have the credits to compensate them.” Obi-Wan chuckles at the long sigh Valorum lets out.

“Yes, that is very in character for him, but he has fortunately already made me aware of that fact. Now, I wouldn’t keep you from Her Majesty’s counsel any longer,” he says, motioning behind him to the handmaidens waiting a respectful distance away for just such a cue.

Unusually, it’s Rabé in the regalia, Sabé standing next to Padmé at the back of the line of handmaidens that meets him halfway to the shuttle, and Obi-Wan can’t fathom why they would have made such a switch. 

“Your Majesty,” he murmurs, bowing far deeper than he had to Valorum, and Rabé smiles conspiritously down at him.

“Messere Naberrie, it is with great relief that we welcome you to Coruscant. We have much to discuss.” She raises one perfect eyebrow, a thousand questions all at once, and Obi-Wan simply smiles at her before turning back to Valorum.

“Chancellor, please make sure my rescuers are shown the highest of gratitude,” he calls, watching Jango twitch out of the corner of his eye. “They went above and beyond Ser Jinn’s instructions, and I would not be here without them.”

Valorum gives another shake of his head, amused and bewildered. “Of course, Messere.”

Padmé barely waits until they’re through the doors of their 500 Republica apartment to latch her arms around his waist like a limpet, nearly knocking the breath out of him with her force. 

_“It’s good to see you too,_ _little one,”_ he laughs in Ubese, letting his sister be fourteen for a moment while the rest of the handmaidens move into the next room to help Rabé out of the regalia. Pamdé stays tucked against Obi-Wan’s chest until she deems him real and alive, before pulling back just enough to glare up at him. 

“Please don’t do that again,” she says sharply, as if her “Queen Voice” is going to work on him.

Smiling, he runs a hand over her head despite her protest and pulls her into his side to join the others in the sitting room. Eirtaé and Sabé help Rabé behind the changing screen while Cordé sets the caf table with Nabooian teas that smell infinitely better than the instant caf Obi-Wan has been drinking the last few days. 

“We have much to discuss,” he says as he lets Padmé tug him towards a second changing screen. 

“Not until Rabé gets a look at whatever you’re hiding under your pins,” she retorts and all but yanks his outer robe away. “Sabé noticed it in the shuttle,” she reluctantly adds when Obi-Wan frowns down at her, gesturing vaguely to where Rabé is emerging back in her handmaiden dress and hood. 

“You did very well disguising it,” Sabé offers, grinning at him as she brings a new set of robes carefully laid over her arms. “And you’re lucky we even have clothes for you: Serah Jinn briefly attempted to sell the royal wardrobe to buy the parts we needed for the ship.”

Padmé glances to him quickly, and ah, she must have put it together; she’s entirely too smart for her age, for all that’s the reason she was even elected in the first place. “I’m alright,” he assures her and takes the purple robes from Sabé.

It doesn’t take him long to change, and by then Rabé has cleared a small space on the caf table for the medkit at least one of the handmaidens has at all times. He sits next to her and lets her fuss over the burn, but she’s grudgingly impressed with the stitchwork, and can’t fault anything Jaster had done. 

“You were walking around with that for a whole tenday?” Sabé asks around a teabiscuit, a bit of powdered sugar falling from her upper lip.

“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds.”

“Bantha shit,” Padmé says blandly from the other side of the caf table, one knee tucked up and looking quite unbecoming of royalty. 

But Obi-Wan has never stood on ceremony, not when they’re alone: he’s known Sabé too long to see her as anything but another sister, and he’d worked too closely with the others during their training to only see them as their masks. The contentment in the Force when it’s just them, even in circumstances such as this, is far better than trying to force these children to be adults any longer than necessary. 

Rabé frowns at her Queen even as she reapplies bacta over Obi-Wan’s burn. “Your Majesty, please.”

Obi-Wan laughs at his sister’s expression and allows himself this comfort, at least for now.

The more Palpatine talks, the more Obi-Wan is willing to forget his pacifist upbringing and throw the man bodily out the window. 

He had long-since noticed their senator trying to warp Padmé’s perception of the galactic government, but suggesting a vote of no confidence for their strongest supporter is a step too far. Worse, Padmé actually looks like she’s considering it, for once in the regalia as their senator attempts to sabotage the rescue of their planet even further; she isn’t paying attention enough to catch Obi-Wan trying to signal to her on their tap-comm, but Sabé does from behind the couch, oozing uneasiness into the Force in attempt to make her Queen feel it.

Obi-Wan quickly signals for her to _stop,_ lest Palpatine notice. 

The man dances around any real answer or usable alternative for an hour before he’s finally called away on “senate business”, and Obi-Wan is more than happy to see the back of him when it takes the grey smoke prodding at his shields with it. 

As soon as the door swishes closed, Obi-Wan is on his feet. “Your Majesty,” he starts, with an eye on Captain Panaka standing guard in the entryway, “we cannot afford a vote of no confidence.”

Padmé glances at Panaka as well, visibly having to stop herself from chewing her lip. “Senator Palpatine seems to think it is the best course of action.”

“The process of voting in a new chancellor will take even longer than the committee from the Trade Federation; there is no conceivable reason Senator Palpatine would suggest unseating Chancellor Valorum unless he has ulterior motives.”

“My Queen,” Sabé adds softly, quiet enough that Panaka shouldn’t be able to hear. “There is something... unsettled around our senator. Messere Naberrie and I have both noticed it.”

Looking torn, Padmé does start biting her lip. “What other options do we have? With the Trade Federation citing the Accord as cause for the embargo, it could take months to sort it all out.”

He manages not to flinch at being reminded the Trade Federation is all but pinning fault on him, and he knows the Accord word for word, knows it will never hold up under scrutiny, and the Viceroy is only playing for time to try and strongarm Padmé into a treaty. “I can’t... I can’t see any other path,” Obi-Wan admits with a sigh, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “But I still have yet to meet with the Chancellor; please have faith that another door will open for us.”

Padmé seems to deflate a little, not helped by her unusually close-fitting dress, but nods her assent after a moment of deliberation. “We will reconvene this evening, once we know all the players. Please give Chancellor Valorum my regards.”

“You know as well as I do this will never hold up to investigation.”

Valorum sighs wearily, fingers at his temple as he leans into his chair with an exhaustion Obi-Wan intimately sympathises with. “The representatives of the Trade Federation possess the only copy of the Accord not on Naboo, Messere, _you_ know that as well as I.”

Valorum’s office is perfectly temperature controlled, but Obi-Wan’s fingertips are still icy, trying to contend his own guilt in his planet’s invasion.

Valorum seems to know what he’s thinking and gets to his feet to join Obi-Wan on the other side of the desk, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “If the rumours on the Senate floor are to be believed, the Trade Federation would have found another, any other, excuse to blockade your planet, Messere; your Accord was simply... poorly timed, perhaps.”

Obi-Wan manages a small smile, appreciating the sentiment, at least. “They have support from someone outside their known allies,” he says, confident enough even without proof to mention it to the Chancellor. “The Viceroy mentioned having to wait until something was passed to make his occupation legal; I did not hear the details, no hint of who he is in communication with, but they have sway in the senate.”

Sighing and running a hand over his face, Valorum leans on the edge of his desk and looks somewhere far past Obi-Wan. “An inspection committee, especially helmed by the Neimoidians, could theoretically stall indefinitely. If we were to perhaps get another copy of the Accord...?”

“Supreme Chancellor, are you suggesting subterfuge?”

“Not at all, Messere,” Valorum smiles easily, “I’m simply stating that Her Majesty’s royal transport flies much faster than Neimoidian shuttles.”

Which... could work, if they could get proof to the Trade Federation’s opposition that Naboo is not in violation of any agreement with them, but it still leaves so much up to chance. “There is still the issue of communications,” Obi-Wan says, with another thought to the droid control ship that must be in orbit to have effect on the planet. Two womp-rats, one stone? “It would not be safe for Her Majesty, in any capacity; few would believe innocent intentions for returning to Naboo.”

The Chancellor can’t help but agree, drumming his fingers on his desk and not speaking for several long minutes. “If perhaps... there were rumours of an exceedingly young Queen feeling homesick and overly sympathetic to her people, against the judgement of her senator and advisors, perhaps more would accept those innocent intentions?” 

“Giving warning of our leaving would be ill-advised, but if after we left Coruscant, such a rumour did exist, I don’t see why the Senate wouldn’t be supplicant to it.”

“Hmm, yes, such a rumour would be quite unfortunate,” Valorum strokes his chin, a smile spreading across his lips. “It would surely shake the representatives of the Trade Federation’s perception of her strength, wouldn’t it? Imply great weakness and ineptitude?”

There is much still to plan for, many events to predict and prepare against, but Obi-Wan still feels tension drain from his shoulders, because this is enough, for now. This is an open door. “Thank you for your counsel, Supreme Chancellor,” he murmurs bowing to Valorum. “I should return to my Queen to make sure... such rumours don’t reach the senate.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Messere. I hope when this mess is all over, we can resume our talks for a Gungan senator.”

Obi-Wan has to laugh at that, because he believes in the Force and the future, but thinking that far ahead makes his head spin.

He is unable to talk Captain Panaka out of requesting the help of the Jedi for the return trip, but Padmé takes his hesitance to mean she should ask for Jaster Mereel’s commcode as well, and Obi-Wan would almost rather it were Qui-Gon Jinn his kid sister was inviting to their apartment.

“I hate you,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, Sabé back as the decoy and Padmé holding back laughter at his side as they wait for Jaster to arrive. 

“But we should be ‘showing them the highest of gratitude’, brother,” she mutters back under the exhausted glare of Panaka. 

The Force must have it out for him, because Jango follows Jaster off the elevator, both with their helmets respectfully tucked under their arms. Jango’s eyes skip right over Obi-Wan, but he notes with satisfaction that Jango has only made his shields stronger, built on the foundations Obi-Wan had given him. 

To make anyone listening think this is a social visit, the handmaidens set them all up in the large sitting room and place a signal jammer at Sabé’s elbow, Jaster raising an eyebrow but saying nothing as Sabé starts to explain the contract.

Obi-Wan feels safe behind his makeup and opulent clothes once again, and meets Jango’s curious gaze even easier than he had in the palace at Theed; as an unfortunate side effect of Obi-Wan’s meddling, he no longer knows what Jango is thinking, at all, even with his helmet perched on his knee. His expression gives nothing away, and Obi-Wan almost laughs at the thought that he would honestly make an alright politician.

“Would these terms be agreeable, Ser Mereel?” Sabé finishes, Jaster running a thumb over his lips in thought.

“Your Highness—” he starts, but at a subtle twitch from Jango, pauses and corrects himself, “Your Majesty. I accepted the initial contract from Jinn with the knowledge of how important Messere Naberrie is to the safety of your planet, so please trust that I understand the continued importance of your protection. However, I have commitments back in Mandalore space that I, as a leader of sorts, cannot postpone; I have a duty to my people, as I’m sure you understand.”

Disappointed, Sabé nods and glances at Padmé for guidance. 

“But my son has no such commitments.” And Jaster smiles, as if he isn’t tempting fate with such an implication.

“Jaster,” Jango bites though his expression does not change, not even looking at his _buir_ as he instead boredly glances around the ridiculously furnished sitting room. 

Barely sparing his _ad_ a smile, Jaster continues as if he had not not spoken, “He is more than capable of fulfilling this contract, and I would trust no other to take it in my place.”

A nonverbal signal from Padmé, and Sabé turns to Jango. “Ser Fett, would these terms be agreeable?”

“I don’t like Jedi,” he says bluntly, finally deigning to give his attention to the conversation, “but I trust their ability to protect you even less. I will see you to Naboo.”

“Thank you for allowing a compromise, Ser Mereel,” Sabé says, standing with Jaster to grip his hand, one leader to another. “We are already deeply in your debt.”

“No offense, Your Majesty,” Jaster laughs, settling his helmet at his hip, “but Finis Valorum pays far too much for me to have said no.”

Jaster stays only until Eirtaé and Jango have come to a written agreement, then bows out with an excuse that his age makes him tired so early, though it is not early at all, with morning only a few hours away now. Adding to the list of slights the Force has against him, Jango stays behind to discuss the situation on Naboo in further detail. With Obi-Wan. Because the handmaidens need to eat, and this is his job anyways.

He’s going to put hair-remover in Padmé’s shampoo, even if Rabé skins him alive for it.

As soon as they’re alone in the sitting room, Jango does a wonderful impression of his _buir_ and raises an expectant eyebrow at him, but what leaves his lips is, “‘Didn’t realise Jaster was serious about the makeup.”

Obi-Wan startles a laugh and forces himself to relax; it had been easy that first night, hadn’t it? Banter and understanding? If he’s to be stuck in close quarters with Jango once again, the least he can do is make it amicable. 

“It’s rude to make light of other cultures’ customs,” Obi-Wan chides, pulling his datapad into his lap to find his notes on his political work from before Padmé. 

“Yet you speak my people’s blessings regardless of the fact you were taught by _dar’manda.”_

Ah, perhaps Obi-Wan had been hasty before, revealing so much of his knowledge so quickly. “Not all those under the Duke have forgotten their past,” he murmurs, glancing to the side table to make sure the signal jammer is still flashing. “I, however, wasn’t simply avoiding the question before: I truly am unable to speak of my teachers without putting them at risk.” Not to mention that Mij would skin him even faster than Rabé.

Scoffing, Jango lounges into his chair, and seems to decide that specific conversation can wait. “And what have the Gungans to do with the Trade Federation’s occupation?”

“You certainly don’t do anything by halves, do you,” Obi-Wan sniffs, but passes over his datapad and ignores the grit of Jango’s glove over his fingers. “I was away from Naboo for a year when I was sixteen, and when I returned, I entered the politics of Theed to rebuild the Naboo’s relationship with the Gungans.” Jango’s brows just climb higher as he looks over Obi-Wan’s extensive notes from those few years. “I worked closely with an aide of the Gungan leaders, and built an accord of sorts.”

“But not a trade agreement?” Jango notes blandly, scrolling almost lazily, but Obi-Wan knows he understands every word he reads.

“I had to convince the Gungans not to invade Theed first,” Obi-Wan recalls almost fondly, having had to spend almost a month in Otoh Gunga to keep his plans for peace from completely backfiring. “When I entered Her Majesty’s employ, I had only just come to a charter with Gungan leaders to begin proper dialogues with the council of the Naboo.”

Jango frowns at him over the top of the datapad, searching Obi-Wan’s expression carefully. “Didn’t the Trade Federation blockade your planet for a violation of Federation agreements?”

Anger flares in him again, but Obi-Wan had sworn to never be that rage-burdened initiate again, and works to allow those emotions to return to the Force before he speaks again. “The representatives of the Trade Federation sitting on the senate have the only other copy of our drafted accord that is not the master copy.”

“Ah.” For all he detests politicians, Jango seems to be catching onto everything rather quickly, even when spoken in half-explanations. “So we are returning to Naboo to get this master copy?”

Among other things, of course, but Jango’s contract ends when they land on Naboo. “At its most basic, yes.”

“And what has Her Majesty concerned enough to hire a mercenary as well as the Jedi?”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?”

“No.”

A Mandalorian on contract never speaks of what they heard or learned while employed —especially the _Haat’ade—_ a fact that Obi-Wan trusts implicitly. “My Queen plans to request armed support from the Gungans. She means to retake Theed, and the Jedi will certainly not involve themselves with such a plan.”

“I’m almost impressed,” Jango snorts. “You come all this way to request help from the senate, only to take matters into your own hands?”

“Hm, do not assume we did not receive exactly what we came for.”

This smile is far more sincere, a challenge and a concession all at once, and Obi-Wan tries not to shudder under the intensity of it. “Alright, I’ll bite, kid: what does your Queen want with a _Mandalorian_ mercenary?”

“Ah, that is a far more difficult answer.”

“We certainly have time,” Jango reasons. Obi-Wan almost wants to throw one of the couch pillows at him.

But he sighs and gives in, accepting his pad back. “Please understand that my Queen has the final say in all matters, for better or for worse. Despite my... misgivings, she plans on asking you for an extension to your contract sometime during our journey, to help lead the siege on the palace.”

Another veiled explanation, unable to be elaborated on, but Jango understands all the same. “Not every _Haat’ade_ was at Galidraan,” he says almost monotonously. Obi-Wan knows better, knows what a trapped animal looks like.

“She was hardly aware of her own mortality when the slaughter of the _Haat Mando’ade_ took place.” Obi-Wan tucks his hands into his sleeves and clenches his fists so tight they burn. “This occupation is the darkest side of the galaxy she has been privy to.”

Setting an arm on the back of his chair, Jango lounges back again, body wound tighter than a spring. “And if I wasn’t at Galidraan, what does she plan to do then?”

“Well, I’d imagine she’ll somehow rope the Jedi into it; she’s good at getting individuals to do what she wants.”

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

And Obi-Wan has to smile at that, remembering Padmé shuffling into his bedroom at the Naberrie estate to admit she had put his name forward for the private election of her advisor. “I do.”

Jango must get something from his answer, some sort of understanding, because some of that tension eases from his posture. “I was. At Galidraan.” Obi-Wan’s smile slips just as quick as it had come, accepting the knowledge that no one had come away from Galidraan unscarred and free, that to have survived the massacre, Jango would have been turned over to the governor who had hired the Jedi in the first place. “Why your Queen thinks that equates to good leadership is beyond me.”

Obi-Wan jerks his head up and stares at Jango, suddenly horrified that he had not made the connection before. “Fett and Mereel.” The Fett that had led the _Haat Mando’ade_ against the insurgents, the Mereel that had once been hailed _Mand’alor._

Tension snaps back to Jango’s body, though only an unimpressed glare gives way in his expression.

“Your _buir_ is—?”

“There’s not enough _Haat’ade_ left for it to make a difference,” Jango quickly dismisses him. “And your precious republic has certainly made sure control of _Manda’yaim_ has stayed in the grasp of the Duke and his flock of eugenics freaks, so tell me what use a _Mand’alor_ is.”

It’s not as if Jango doesn’t have a point, but Jaster’s little admission to returning to Mandalorian space, surely that had something to do with his “leadership”? 

“I was... still on Bandomeer when the Jedi were called to Galidraan,” he admits softly, looking away from the startled recognition on Jango’s face. “I only learned of it after arriving on Naboo.”

_Obi-Wan is not a Nabooian name._ It is not a Jedi’s either. 

“How long were you there?” Jango asks instead of hundreds of other, harder questions. 

“A year. We were brought to Naboo days before the mines blew.”

_“Obi-Wan,”_ Qui-Gon Jinn breathes from the doorway and Obi-Wan shoots to his feet, his pad clattering to the floor. Jango doesn’t rise immediately, but his hand darts to the blaster at his hip, and under different circumstances, Obi-Wan would be flattered.

Now, though, he can’t seem to get his mouth to work, staring at the man that he had spent years blaming for Bandomeer before he realised the effort was exhausting, that he could hold onto that rage and let it destroy him, or find peace in the family he had _earned._

He still flinches when Jin strides across the room and reaches for his face, but does not stop him; now more than ever, he feels little more than the initiate staring at the Jedi transport leaving him to his fate.

“It really is...” Jinn looks at him with a wonder he is undeserving of, the Jedi drinking in every detail of his face and Obi-Wan wants to push him away, oh Force, just let him _breathe—_ “I was so unsure on Naboo,” Jinn keeps talking like Obi-Wan isn’t moments from shaking apart. “It felt almost too good to be true, that you would have survived so long. Your control of the Force, you must have kept up with your studies, that Xanatos did not break you—”

“Hey. _Jetii.”_ Jango grabs Jinn’s wrist —how had Obi-Wan not noticed him getting to his feet?— and gives enough of a physical barrier that Obi-Wan can put some distance between himself and Jinn. 

There are many things Obi-Wan had thought he had contended with years before, but just the mention of Jinn’s former apprentice has his insides clawing for escape, makes him have to clench his teeth tight enough to hurt just to keep from throwing up. It’d been nine years, he should be over this—

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Jinn says almost pleasantly, which only serves to enrage Jango further, enough that it’s starting to leak past his shields. 

“No, I haven’t had the displeasure,” he grunts, taking half a step to the side as though, if he can hide him from view, Jinn will forget about Obi-Wan. 

Scolding himself for losing control, Obi-Wan tries to get his bearings back, tries to steady his breathing enough for speech, but finds himself latching onto the cracks in Jango’s shields instead. It’s easy enough, to start to patch them back up, the routine of it almost soothing, and he wonders distantly if Jango can feel him doing it.

“If you could give us a moment alone,” Jinn is saying dismissively when Obi-Wan’s breathing isn’t quite so loud in his ears, “I would like to speak with my former apprentice.”

“Not on your kriffing life.”

Jinn blinks, obviously not having expected to be told no. “I beg your pardon?”

“Unless Messere Naberrie asks me to leave, not on your _kriffing life.”_

“I apologise, but this is a Jedi matter, so if you could step asi—”

Obi-Wan grabs Jango’s arm with both hands to stop him from socking Jinn in the face, and the Mando’s strength isn’t _surprising_ so much as it is a shock to have to try and hold it back. “Jango,” he chides in a rasp, and incredibly, impossibly, Jango steps down, loosening his fist where Jinn’s honest-to-Force surprised frown can see it and understand he's making the choice not to strike. Again, under different circumstances, Obi-Wan would probably feel differently, more amused, more vindictive at breaking Jinn’s perfect calm; right now, he just feels sick.

“Mr. Qui-Gon?” 

A small boy inches into the room, but Obi-Wan almost doesn’t realise for how _bright_ he is, as if he effuses light and warmth from every pore, the Force almost singing in his presence. This is the boy Padmé had told him about? This nova in the Force that tries to ease every ache Obi-Wan has ever owned?

“Anakin,” Jinn forces a tiny smile, “did you find Ms. Padmé?”

“Why are you guys fighting?” Anakin asks instead, looking between the adults all too knowingly. 

But he’s right, and Obi-Wan refuses to air his dirty laundry in front of a _child._

“Ser Jedi,” he manages, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice, “I was never your apprentice, and Kenobi is dead. My home is on Naboo, my family is on Naboo. Do _not_ presume to know me, Ser Jinn.”

Looking as if it physically pains him, Jinn still steps back and gives a slight bow. “I apologise for assuming, Messere. Clearly you were...” he glances to Jango, “in the middle of something. Perhaps we can continue this conversation another time.”

Obi-Wan grits his teeth. “Perhaps.”

Anakin’s frown deepens as Jinn leads him back out of the room, determinedly keeping his gaze on Obi-Wan until he can’t anymore, even twisting a little to keep eye contact for a moment longer. 

Jango is the one to break the silence, Obi-Wan feeling the muscles of his arm flex under his palms. “You good?”

Obi-Wan clears his throat and quickly releases him. “Yes, I’m... That was...”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” Jango says firmly, still glaring at the doorway. “You should have let me hit him.”

He tsks. “You will not get into needless fights on my account, Jango.”

“You and I appear to have different definitions of ‘needless.’”

“Then you will not strike Ser Jinn while under contract with the Naboo, and if I had my way, I’d extend the order past that.”

Scoffing, Jango picks up his helmet from where he’d abandoned it in his chair and grabs Obi-Wan’s dropped datapad as he goes. “We’ll see how long I last in close quarters with him,” he mutters, not looking sorry at all even under Obi-Wan’s glare.

Kriff, this is all a kriffing mess. “Thank you,” he finally sighs, and if he means for the datapad or for whatever the kriff just happened, he doesn’t know. 

He is even less sure when Jango growls _“You’re welcome,”_ like a challenge he expects Obi-Wan to meet, and leaves him with his commcode so he knows when the royal transport is planning on making their getaway.

Obi-Wan lets him go and doesn’t not ask him to explain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> projecting my chronic pain onto obi-wan? it’s more likely than you think.
> 
> oml so much happens in this chapter i'm so sorry i'm editing it at 4:30am, i'll do another edit tomorrow!
> 
> i love y'all, wear a fucking mask, stay safe.


	4. Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anakin gets cuddles and jango gets alcohol. qui-gon gets a clue and obi-wan almost gets a hug.  
> also i technically finished this before midnight, but then had to upload it. it coUNTS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Mando’a:**  
>  _ba’buir_ — “grandparent”  
>  _ade_ — “children”, gender neutral  
>  _beskar’vik_ — a sharp staff made of beskar, with ‘vik’ from ‘bevik’ or stick.  
>  _tihaar_ — Mandalorian strong clear spirit made from fruit  
>  _tiingilar_ — Mandalorian casserole considered to be “blisteringly spicy”
> 
>  **Huttese:**  
>  _juji_ — “child”/“kid”; extrapolated from the word for kidnap _Jujiminmee_ , please suspend disbelief :’)
> 
> **  
> _*moderate descriptions of scars from major injuries, minor implied panic attacks, ptsd-related trigger responses. stay safe, kiddos!*_  
> **

**A** fter the... eventful evening before, Jango can no longer mentally keep referring to his employer as  _ Naberrie, _ not when he’s seen raw fear on him, not when he’s already addressing Jango so intimately. The camaraderie of shared trauma does not allow him.

He arrives back at the Queen’s apartment just after midmeal, something about the extra protection from the shuttle to the landing pad, and thankfully the captain of the guard is the only one there to greet him in the foyer; the entourage yesterday had been excessive.

“The Queen is almost ready,” Panaka tells him with a respectful nod, gesturing to one of the chairs; he shrugs passively when Jango doesn’t take it. “As I’m sure Messere Naberrie told you, we’re hoping to avoid our senator as well as others that may try to stop us; we want to make it to the transport with as little trouble as possible.”

“I’ve found trouble happens whether we want it to or not.”

Panaka laughs, warm and deep. “Experiencing the last few tendays, I’m inclined to agree. I’ll let Her Majesty know you’re here.” He gives a little bow and disappears through a smaller sitting room into a hall Jango had not noticed last night. 

This is, of course, far from the first time Jango has taken a job without Jaster, but the stakes here are significantly higher: depending on how talks with the old clans go, Jaster might not even make it to their meeting place a tenday from now. And while the credits from this will certainly cover Jango getting his own ship, he actually has to survive long enough to get paid (and not let this gaggle of children get shot on the way.)

Snorting, Jango makes his way to the chair when it’s clear Her Majesty will be a good few minutes more.

Instead, movement through the nearest doorway pulls his attention to the next room over, lined with changing screens and several suitcases that could store everything Jango’s ever owned and still have room to spare. A handmaiden pulls a swath of pink fabric so pale it’s almost white over Obi-Wan’s head, fitting it around his arms and fastening the collar. Flitting around with a few pins in her mouth, the handmaiden carefully arranges the skirts of the robes, and Jango is quite distressed to see that it's actually closer to a dress — and is completely backless. It hides nothing of the lean and toned shoulders that Jango very much did not get permission to see.

Despite his best intentions, he doesn’t look away fast enough to miss the scars that mirror his own, patches of lichtenberg figures from electric whips and straight lines from untreated injuries. A collection of button-sized scars litter Obi-Wan’s nape that he doesn’t recognize, only visible with how high his hair is pulled up.

The brand underneath his left shoulderblade is ugly as anything and warped from how young Obi-Wan had been when he got it, ringed in stretchmarks and splatter scars. But what makes Jango freeze is that he can’t tell what it’s supposed to be, a symbol or a word or company logo, he only knows what it is from experience. It’s  _ messy, _ as if the iron had skidded over his skin several times, and Jango realises with a building rage that Obi-Wan would have had to have been moving when he got it. That they either didn’t hold him down, or they  _ couldn’t. _

Both thoughts make Jango sick.

He pulls himself away as the handmaiden helps Obi-Wan into a blue cloak-wrap with edges that almost look like fins. Jango sinks into the chair across the foyer and bemoans how little sleep he had actually gotten, with Jaster pestering him and then having to leave at daybreak, and it's too early in the afternoon for the sorts of revelations the past thirty seconds have given him. 

Luckily, the Queen doesn’t make him wait much longer, gliding into the room with the other handmaidens and guards, the accents of her regalia matching Obi-Wan’s cloak perfectly.

Jango swings back to his feet to give her a perfunctory bow, noting with interest that it is not the same Queen that had given him his contract the night before. No, that girl is at the back in the handmaidens’ orange dress, and when Jango looks around at the others’ faces, they do all look quite similar. A clever trick, he decides, tucking away that information for future jobs.

Of course, he doesn't mention his observation and listens silently as Panaka goes over the plan, how to avoid other senators in the building, how they planned to get to the landing dock without traffic control becoming suspicious. It’s quite a bit of subterfuge, for such a small planet. 

Obi-Wan joins them a few minutes later, and Jango curses Jaster all the way to his great  _ ba’buir, _ because the cloak hangs off his shoulders, his hair braided back half-up, half-down, with a moon-shaped hairpiece that is an exact inverse to the one Queen Amidala wears; Jango has to give the stylist credit, they do make quite the pair, even if he doesn't understand how they had done everything quite so fast. 

Obi-Wan doesn’t smile, hidden back behind his makeup, but his gaze is warm when he passes over Jango to let Panaka finish explaining the next hour.

In spite of, or perhaps in thanks to the careful planning, the shuttle ride to the dock is completely uneventful, except for the way one of the handmaidens won’t stop shooting glances at him. Jango slips his helmet on before they step out of the shuttle, and he’s glad for it, when he spies brown Jedi robes on the other side of the landing dock.

Jinn strides for them with something that could perhaps be a smile, but that doesn’t matter, not when Jango realises the kid from last night is trotting along behind him, all forlorn and kicked tooka-eyed, and Jinn can’t possibly be planning on taking him with them.

“Your Majesty,” Jinn greets with a far more respectful bow than the one Jango hadn’t fussed with, and gives a nod to both Obi-Wan and Panaka.

Obi-Wan ignores him completely, instead leaning around Jinn so he can look at the boy who is staring at him open-mouthed. Crouching down to wave him closer while Jinn checks in with Panaka, Obi-Wan smiles, big and soft, and Jango is thankful for his helmet.

“I’m sorry we could not meet properly last night, my friend,” Obi-Wan says, shaking the boy’s hand like any proper adult.

“That’s alright!” he chirps back. “You were busy. I’m Anakin!”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Anakin, I’m Obi-Wan. Are you coming with us to Naboo?” The question is punctuated by a sideways glare at Jinn, who either doesn’t notice or pretends not to.

Anakin shuffles his feet uncomfortably. “The Jedi didn’t want me, so I’m going with Mr. Qui-Gon until we can find someplace else for me.” Maker, and the kid is Force sensitive? Does Jinn just collect wayward children, now?

“Well, in that case, you and I will have to talk a little more, ‘see if there isn’t a place for you on Naboo, hm?” Obi-Wan tilts his head to meet Anakin’s eye, that smile doing as much to Anakin as it does to Jango, flooding them with warmth. 

With an awed, slack-jawed nod, Anakin’s face splits into a smile to match. “I’d like that, Mr. Obi-Wan!”

“Just Obi-Wan is fine,” he laughs, pushing back up to his feet. “Now, let’s see if Ric Olié won’t let you sit in the cockpit for takeoff.” He puts a gentle, leading hand on Anakin's shoulder, and with a small bow to the Queen, boards the ship with Anakin in tow, never even sparing Jinn a glance. 

Jinn sighs, one arm crossed in front of himself as he rubs his beard. “Captain,” he starts, and Jango already knows he’s going to hate whatever else comes out of his mouth. “I mentioned before that I do not think we require outside help.”

Jango decides Jinn isn’t worth his investment in a conversation, and kindly doesn’t remind him that  _ he _ had been the one to hire Jaster in the first place.

Panaka looks between them uncomfortably, but with a gesture from Amidala, interjects. “Serah Jedi, Her Majesty feels safer with two trained warriors accompanying her."

“Even with your numbers, a Jedi is more than enough protection—”

“If it were up to your ‘protection,’ Messere Naberrie would still be in the hands of the Trade Federation,” Jango tells him monotonously over external comm, “if he had not been killed already. Your Majesty, I suggest we get out of the open and leave as soon as possible, someone will have been alerted to us being here.”

“I agree,” Panaka says with relief, starting to usher Amidala and her handmaidens up the ramp. Jango doesn’t give Jinn the satisfaction of cornering him, and follows Panaka towards the cockpit.

**E** ven five minutes on comm with Jar Jar is too much for Obi-Wan, exhausted despite the early hour from trying to explain the situation in a way Jar Jar wouldn’t kark up when relaying to Boss Nass. Obi-Wan knows he’s not useless, just a little clumsy —in both speech and action— but, Force, he can only handle him in small doses.

Exiting the comm room, Obi-Wan makes his way for the galley instead of the Queen’s quarters, intent on some caf and reassurance that Anakin had been fed. A kriffing  _ slave child _ , honestly _ ; _ Maker, Obi-Wan might just let Jango have a go at Jinn.

He’s barely through the door when Anakin scrambles up from the bench by the table, abandoning a pad and stylus to run right up to him. “Mr. Qui-Gon said you’re like a prince! You work with the queen? Is she actually only fourteen? Why do you wear makeup like her?”

Obi-Wan can’t help but laugh and crouch back down to balance on his heels, Anakin taking this as permission to unload every question he’s had since Jinn found him on Tatooine. All too happy to keep that smile on his face, Obi-Wan answers as many as Anakin pauses long enough for him to cut in for, and doesn’t mind the achy knees.

On the edges of his attention is Jango at the counter without his helmet, refilling the pot of caf and pretending not to listen, but every now and then he’ll snort at Anakin’s enthusiasm, and Obi-Wan suspects he’s just as fond of  _ ade _ as his father.

“Wait, you have the Force, too?” 

Bewildered but not completely surprised that Anakin is able to sense something like that —not when his bones vibrate with the Force itself— Obi-Wan rocks back on his feet. “I am,” he says. “I’m not very good at moving things, but I like to think I’m alright with protection.” Jango snorts again at this, but he isn’t sure if it’s in agreement or disbelief.

“Do you have a laser sword? I saw Mr. Qui-Gon’s, I’d give  _ anything _ to take it apart and look—”

“Goodness, Anakin,” Obi-Wan barks a laugh, “please tell me you haven’t asked Ser Jinn that.”

Anakin scrunches his face, but shakes his head. “No, I didn’t want to bother.”

“It is no small thing for another to hold your lightsaber, you understand?” He catches one of Anakin’s hands and swings it between them. “Hmm, Padmé was telling me about the droid you built back on Tatooine; how would you feel if a random scruffy kid—”

“Hey!”

“ _ Scruffy _ ,” he insists, tugging Anakin forward to push his free hand through his indeed-scruffy hair, making him giggle, “How would you feel if they asked to take C3PO apart?”

“I wouldn’t like that,” Anakin agrees. “They’re special, right? To each person?”

Obi-Wan nods, and tries not to think of the only one he had been allowed to build before leaving the Temple; where do unused lightsabers even go? “Sort of like a friendship; it’s a personal and private weapon.”

“Alright, I won’t ask to take it apart,” he grumbles. “But do you have one?”

He feels Jango’s gaze more than he sees it, feels the implicit question in his concern, and Obi-Wan sends him a quiet wave of reassurance. “No, Anakin, I do not. They are weapons of the Jedi, aren’t they?”

Instead of assuaged, Anakin looks deeply troubled by that, but Obi-Wan can’t quite get a read on his thoughts. “Why aren’t you a Jedi?” he asks softly, Jango sighing but still not interfering. 

“That path is not meant to be followed by everyone, just as the Queen’s isn’t.” This part doesn’t hurt like it used to, Obi-Wan is content on Naboo, more than content with his family, and perhaps Master Yoda had been right, that his temper would have been his undoing. His knee aches as if in agreement.

A little desperate, Anakin looks between Obi-Wan and Jango quickly, and Obi-Wan can’t fathom what he’s so upset about. “But Mr. Qui-Gon said...”

“I don’t know what Ser Jinn has said,” Obi-Wan immediately interrupts; he’d honestly rather not know what crazy idea Jinn had gotten in his head this time, “but I’m no more a Jedi than Ric Olié is, and that’s alright, isn’t it? There are always other places for us.”

“Right,” Anakin says doubtfully.

“My path led me to Naboo,” Obi-Wan adds, tugging on his hand gently. “What if we never met because I was somewhere else today, hm?”

Anakin gets that slack-jawed look again, the one he gives Padmé whenever he sees her, and Obi-Wan shakes his head as he rocks back up to his feet. Jango laughs once and turns back to the caf machine, two mugs on the counter, and Obi-Wan decides he quite likes that laugh, even if it’s a little muffled. 

“Now,  _ juji, _ has that crazy Jedi made sure you’ve eaten?”

**J** ango makes his way up to the main deck just after the chronos claim it should be morning planetside, and he actually misses the AI-AT’s day/night cycle; this craft clearly isn’t meant for longterm travel, all light and temperature settings manual, but at least it isn’t nearly so cold as the AI-AT can get if they aren’t paying attention.

He ducks into the galley to start the pot of caf for himself and the guard, with half a mind to set some aside for Obi-Wan as well; he doesn’t know when the kid will actually be awake, but he had certainly been an early riser on the way to Coruscant. Someone had put the dishes through the sonic sometime in the night, leaving just enough mugs for the first round of risers before the pilots cycle in. He hopes it hadn't been Anakin.

It’s only halfway through setting up the caf maker that Jango realises he isn’t alone, a blur of white and blue tugging his gaze to the table across the room. 

Obi-Wan is in the same robes as the day before, though his boots have been abandoned on the floor so he can pull his feet up onto the bench. Curled so thoroughly into the corner, Jango almost can’t see his face, and it takes him a moment to identify the lump under his cloak as Anakin, completely wrapped up in Obi-Wan’s lap with his head on Obi-Wan’s shoulder as if he isn’t already nine standard.

Jango’s heart does not pound, the stars do not align or the Force sing or whatever nonsense holodramas would have you believe; instead something relaxes and settles back in his chest, nods in acceptance, and Jango can’t ignore it anymore. Just what “it” is is still up for debate, but he can acknowledge he has more invested in this job than is usual or wise.

Anakin snuffles and his head emerges out from around Obi-Wan’s arm, hair an absolute mess as he blinks blearily around the galley. With a quiet snort, Jango taps his first knuckle on his chin in a freedmen’s greeting, before gesturing for Anakin to keep quiet with a nod to the still-sleeping Obi-Wan.

It takes Anakin a moment to wake up enough to understand, but then his eyes widen and he nods seriously, a thumbs-up popping up over the edge of Obi-Wan’s cloak. Jango laughs behind his lips and returns to his task.

Obi-Wan disappears from the galley sometime before Jango returns to start the second pot of caf, and Jango hopes it’s so he can get some sleep in a proper bed, though he has it on good authority that that’s probably far from the case.

Anakin’s care has been rotated to Jinn for lessons, leaving Jango relieved he can settle in the galley with his datapad to start running numbers for a new ship. With them sending a portion of their contract fees back to the old clans on Mandalore, it’s taken a little longer than expected for Jango to save up enough credits, but he’s also thankful that he’s been able to spend the last five years with Jaster. On the spice freighter, Jango hadn’t even considered seeing his  _ buir _ again, had believed that either he would die with those spice runners, or that Jaster had fallen as he was supposed to at Galidraan. 

Even now, part of him wants to keep going as they have. 

Instead, Jango pulls up a few contacts to send feelers out to about fixer-uppers once they drop out of hyperspace, because he can’t live in Jaster’s shadow forever.

Soft footsteps warn him before a handmaiden comes down from the upper deck with a pad of her own tucked under her arm. She smiles as she sees him, and Jango thinks this is the girl that had been the Queen when they left Coruscant; it’s certainly an interesting mental exercise, trying to differentiate them all.

“Do you mind if I join you?” she asks, bright and kind, nothing at all like Arla, but Jango misses her still. “I’m afraid Her Majesty’s quarters are a bit hectic right now.”

He nods to the bench and returns to his pad, once again wondering just what sort of work these  _ children _ are doing while in the middle of an invasion of their home planet.  _ Mando’ade _ start young, join their families in battle and culture young, so perhaps it shouldn’t disturb him so much to see the Naboo do something similar. 

The handmaiden gets a cup of water, and then after a moment’s deliberation, gets Jango one as well before joining him on the other end of the booth. “I’m Padmé,” she says, but doesn’t press for conversation, simply smiles before settling into her work and leaving Jango to his own.

It’s actually quite nice, having someone else around in the silence; it’s been so many years with just Jaster that Jango sometimes forgets other people exist. 

They spend a few hours like that, only interrupted once by another handmaiden –the one that had been dressing Obi-Wan– looking for a few ration bars before leaving again, and Jango snorts to think about whatever poor fool is trying to entertain Anakin at the moment.

“Do you think it’s the Accord’s fault that this happened?” Padmé asks suddenly, pausing her typing while not looking up.

Jango raises a brow, but perhaps it shouldn’t be so surprising that she has questions. “If it is,” he starts carefully, “you should be looking very closely at those that don’t seem to want the Gungans allying with the Naboo. Why that would be.” Padmé starts to chew her lip in thought, nodding once. “If it isn’t, your queen should think about what else the Trade Federation would get out of this, because, honestly, it’s a stupid move all around.”

“Obi-Wan said the same,” she murmurs, setting her datapad onto the table to stare blankly at the opposite wall. “But he’s been working on the Accord since Mandalore, why would the Federation only make a move now?”

Feeling tension snap back to his bones, Jango carefully tucks that information away for later; obviously Obi-Wan had had some sort of dealing with the Duke, for an extended period of time, and Jango supposes this would line up with Obi-Wan saying he had been away from Naboo for a year. He had come back from a civil war-torn Mandalore and decided to reconnect the two peoples on his own planet, and yeah, that sounds in character.

And it certainly explains the  _ beskar’vik. _

“Hm, and he said something was off about your senator, no?” Jango pretends to be drawn back to his datapad, but keeps a careful eye on Padmé in his periphery. “What does  _ he _ gain by the blockade?”

She chews her lip for a few more moments before answerings. “Sympathy in the senate. Especially with such a young queen.”

“‘Would make his chances of being nominated as a replacement chancellor better, wouldn’t it?”

Padmé whips her head around to him in alarm. “You don’t think...”

“I don’t know any of you very well,” Jango says, meeting her gaze with an eyebrow raised, “but I trust Messere Obi-Wan’s instincts of people better than I trust my own. I’d tell the Queen to keep an eye on your senator.”

They lapse into silence once again, Padmé tapping her fingers on the edge of her pad as she thinks, Jango going back to his math as if it’s even half as interesting as their conversation. He certainly wouldn’t want Palpatine as his senator, anyways.

“It’s Obi-Wan now?” 

Jango does not give her the satisfaction of looking up again. “He’s been using my first name since the jump to Coruscant.”

“Mm,” she says, poorly hiding a smile. “Alright, then.”

The next morning, Panaka lets Jango use one of the nav terminals in the cockpit to start looking at the planets around Naboo that he might be able to get a ship from, if things indeed go south on Mandalore and Jaster doesn’t make their rendezvous. 

Obi-Wan is standing behind Ric Olié when he gets there, deep in discussion with the pilot about the plan once they reach Naboo space, but he finds the time to shoot Jango a smile, no white makeup today, but with a blue stripe down his lips from his cupid’s bow. Jango would only feel a little bad about tossing the handmaiden responsible out the airlock.

And the round shape of the cockpit keeps Obi-Wan at the edges of his vision, a distracting dark blue blur whose movement’s draw Jango’s attention every few minutes, and he absolutely could not tell you what they’re talking about anymore. Luckily, Ric is angled away and doesn’t notice, though Jango isn’t entirely sure Obi-Wan hasn’t.

His long-sleeved chiton mocks Jango with personal vehemence.

Jango is only just starting to actually focus on his task when Obi-Wan trails off and frowns at the door, before wincing and murmuring to Ric that he’d return in a moment. He waves off Jango’s raised brow and disappears down the steps to the main deck; Jango and Ric exchange a confused look before returning to their tasks.

Jango gives it five minutes before his rising anxiety won’t let him ignore it anymore, sighing as he gets to his feet. Ric nods him out of the room, though Jango isn’t quite sure what he means by it.

Halfway down the staircase, Jinn’s soft voice floats up from the galley, immediately setting Jango on alert, and he honestly should have known.

“... extenuating circumstances, the council would surely welcome you back. If Xanatos left no trace in your mind–”

Kriff, Jango can’t leave this kid alone for  _ five minutes. _ “Hey, jetii,” he interrupts gruffly, not stomping down the last few steps but not shy about reminding Jinn of his beskar’gam.

Jinn glares at him, but Jango ignores him for the moment, instead taking in Obi-Wan stood in front of him, his perfectly-straight posture, the way his face is impassive but his eyes are glassy and he doesn’t acknowledge Jango’s presence at all. Habit has Jango glance down to his hands, folded in front of himself benignly, but shaking uncontrollably, and it’s a miracle Jinn hasn’t noticed.

“I’m afraid this is a private discussion, Mr. Fett,” Jinn says, and actually does sound apologetic, so maybe he isn’t all malicious ignorance.

It doesn’t lessen Jango’s anger. “Unfortunately for you, I was hired to protect the royal party, of which Mesere Naberrie is a part of. And you clearly don’t know how to read a room,” he bites out. 

Jinn blinks at him, expression stunned, before looking quickly to Obi-Wan who has dropped his head away. Jinn finally seems to get a sense of his distress, and takes a quick step back to dip into a bow. “I apologise, Messere,” he says softly, “I did not realise your discomfort. I apologise for any hurt I’ve caused.”

He glances to Jango, looking for  _ direction, _ and Jango is all too happy to jerk his chin towards the stairs; he somehow manages not to punch Jinn when he passes him. Jinn still winces on his way to the upper deck.

Waiting until he hears Jinn’s footsteps overhead, Jango works his jaw and forces himself to calm before moving slowly into Obi-Wan’s line of sight, careful to keep his hands where Obi-Wan can see them, though he has no plans of trying to touch him. “You alright, kid? I won’t ask just what the kriff he thought he was doing–”

“He wants me to come back,” Obi-Wan croaks. “To the Temple. To the Jedi.”

“Are you sure you won’t let me hit him?”

Obi-Wan manages a laugh that’s only slightly hysterical, and takes a deep breath before facing Jango, even if he can’t make eye contact just yet; Jango doesn’t mind, remembers what that’s like. “Jinn can’t get in my mind, he doesn’t... he doesn’t feel anything from me in the Force, because I do not let him,” he says quietly, gaze somewhere over Jango’s shoulder. 

“He mentioned your control of our shields,” Jango agrees carefully. “But you should not apologise for him.”

“You were on the freighter for four years.”

It isn’t a question, and Jango sighs. “Yes. Our handlers never let us planetside .”

Nodding, Obi-Wan inhales again and flexes his hands a few times. “My handler was Force sensitive.”

“We had a few. Obi-Wan, you don’t have to explain–”

“Jinn’s old apprentice was the one to put me there.” Obi-Wan’s throat bobs once, and Jango almost marches back upstairs to strangle Jinn, but realises that would mean leaving Obi-Wan alone, and forces himself to calm down. “He was good at mind tricks, the– the Order always wanted him for negotiations, he was good at working a room, but his real skill was getting past someone’s shields.”

Jango is far from a genius, but it doesn’t take one to see where this is going. “You were _thirteen,_ Obi-Wan,” he says, because he’s done the math. “Even the spice runners don’t deal in child slaves.”

“But I was raised in the Jedi Temple. Xanatos knew every trick I could... Did they–” he licks his lips. “Did you ever have someone in your head? Trying to dismantle your mind from the inside? Try to rip what good is left of you out by the roots, or rifle through your memories like a  _ catalogue–” _

“Breathe, Obi-Wan.”

He startles and finally meets Jango’s gaze, the sudden intensity and focus sending Jango spiraling. “They never found him,” he croaks, like Jango can handle any more rage just then. “Jinn wants to keep looking for him, wants to let the council look at my mind for clues, and I can’t– I can’t go through that again, Jango, I can’t–”

Jango has to close his eyes for a moment — to stop himself from doing _what,_ he isn’t sure, but his skin itches for action, to reach out. “Kid, you can say no.” Obi-Wan stares at him, jaw jumping, and Xanatos should start praying that Jango never finds him. “You don’t even have to leave Naboo again if you don’t want to, Jinn can’t make you do anything. You’re free, remember?”

A beat of silence, Obi-Wan’s eyes so wide he looks even younger than he is, and, Maker, Jango doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he starts crying– 

But Obi-Wan just tips forward into Jango’s shoulder, tucked perfectly into the junction of his neck as he sighs, short and gruff. “Right,” he murmurs into Jango’s blacks, breath tickling his throat. “I don’t... Thank you, Jango.”

Cautiously, Jango sets a hand on the back of Obi-Wan’s neck, and some part of him is pleased he doesn’t flinch at the touch; those strange scars are cold under his palm. “If Jinn tries anything like that again, I’m breaking my contract,” Jango warns, that pleased part of himself easing into contentment as Obi-Wan laughs hoarsely against him.

When the Queen invites Jango to her quarters that night, with their arrival to Naboo looming the next morning, he pretends he hadn’t known she would ask to extend his contract. Obi-Wan stands off to the side, in a new set of silky lavender tunics and with his hair pulled up away from the high collar, and shoots him a smug wink when Jango takes his seat across from the Queen. Or, the one that had him sign the contract the last time, at least.

No one in the room seems surprised when he agrees to the new contract, to continue to keep the royal party safe until the occupation is dealt with or both the Queen and her advisor are dead. As if Jango would let that happen.

Obi-Wan follows him when the contract has been signed and filed away, but says nothing as they make their way to the galley. When he had begun this venture, Jango hadn’t expected the galley to be the eventful hub it has been the last few days, and he’ll honestly miss it a little at the end of this, though perhaps he won’t admit to it out loud.

Obi-Wan stands on his toes to reach into one of the cabinets above the sonic, and then joins Jango at the table with a bottle as purple as his tunics. He only smiles at Jango’s questioning brow and pours them both barely enough to be comparable to a serving of  _ tihaar — _ and surely it is some sort of spirit, with the tiny glass Obi-Wan sets in front of him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says softly, sitting in the chair next to Jango. 

“It’s good money,” he shrugs, smirking as he downs his glass and has to pretend it doesn’t  _ burn: _ the liquor is surprisingly strong, and spicy enough to match any  _ tiingilar _ while still tasting just as floral as the gardens at the Theed palace. 

With a fond shake of his head, Obi-Wan tips back his own and stacks his glass with Jango’s. “Fireplum and honeysuckle wine,” he says around a tiny smile, far too amused when Jango can’t stop from coughing once. It had been a  _ long _ time since he’d last had tiingilar.

“Fireplum. Accurate,” Jango finally manages gruffly, and Obi-Wan ducks his head to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genuine question: would y'all hate it if I had some cliche injury hurt/comfort at the end of this, or are y'all all about the tropes? 'Cause I've been sort of disconnected from what's generally accepted/expected from tropes these days! And like. I'm a simple guy. I like Character A worrying about Character B, especially if Character B is running off doing reckless shit like facing Maul with nothing but his beskar'vik (ノ*´◡`*)


	5. Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t think so. No, really, I don’t... I don’t think it can play out as I saw it, there’s too much changed already.”
> 
> Padmé nods. “With Anakin?”
> 
> “With Anakin. And Jango, I don’t think he’s supposed to be here.” He frowns at the closed door as if he can see the Mando on the other side, and Padmé might not put that past him. “I think... I think Maul is going to be there. In Theed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Mando’a:**  
>  _beskar’vik_ — a sharp staff made of beskar, with ‘vik’ from ‘bevik’ meaning stick. in some forms of canon, beskar is lightsaber resistant to a point!  
>  _jetii_ — sing. "Jedi," pl. _jetiise  
>  aruetii_ — "traitor", "foreigner", "outsider"
> 
> ***disclaimer:*** gungan translator used this chapter, because fuck if i was gonna try and think through all of that. just wanna go on record saying: fuCK both the gungan and neimoidian accents, george lucas is a racist fuck who i would punch, personally, with prejudice. but i tried writing boss nass’ dialogue without it and boy howdy was it the Worst Fucking Thing. so. if it’s any consolation, this should be the only chapter with them in it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> this one is a little short! was super blocked writing and rewriting it, but chapters will go back to regular length in the coming week! thank you all for all your patience and wonderful responses to my question last chapter (ノ*´◡`) i’m mostly settled in from the move and should be back on schedule!

**R** ed doors, opening and closing behind his eyes, the hum of the Theed power generator as loud in his ears as if he were in the complex itself. Hot Mandalorian air buffets right through the training tunics Mij had given him, nearly knocking him clean off the top of the ship as the yellow-tattooed Zabrak bears down on him, and Mij had _not prepared him for going against a double-ended lightstaff—_

Maul kicks Jinn clear across the room, slamming the Jedi against the nearest catwalk before spinning his attention back to Obi-Wan. He knows those yellow eyes, just as they know him, and the certainty that Maul won’t let him forget running Savage through with his own red ‘saber sinks into his bones. 

Hot Mandalorian air buffets right through him and he is all the colder for it, as Maul heaves himself up onto the top deck of the barge and his gaze lands on Savage at Obi-Wan’s feet. The Force screams its confusion, this hadn’t been its plan, Obi-Wan shouldn’t even be here— And like an _idiot,_ he jumps in front of Jinn before Maul can return the favour.

* * *

The ache from his right shoulder to his left hip follows him after waking and through meditation, through his stretches and into breakfast with Padmé and the handmaidens. Sabé makes no mention of the phantom pain she can feel in Force, simply stirs a few painkillers into his tea before handing it to him. 

With Rabé in the regalia, Sabé is the one to bring him a set of the red battledress the handmaidens also wear, along with a dark outer robe to put him a little more on par with the extravagance of the Queen's dress. 

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan murmurs, for both the tea and her help when his unsteady hands fumble at the fastenings. 

She smiles, as if knowing she occupies just as large a place in his chest as Padmé, and moves to help with his makeup before he can ask. “You can thank me when we all come out of this alive,” she returns softly, carefully swiping blue onto his bottom lip. 

It’s still rather early when Obi-Wan makes his way down to the galley, but he’s pleased to see Anakin already at the table, munching on bread and jerky rations as he chatters happily at Ric Olié. Ric sips at a cup of caf and engages in Anakin’s information dump about podracers, entertaining him while Jinn is off Maker knows where. Though he can’t see him, Obi-Wan senses Jango not far in the droid hold, knelt on the floor with his mind a quiet hum in something almost like meditation, though not any Obi-Wan is familiar with.

Anakin’s eyes snap to him and he nearly drops the jerky from his mouth in his hurry to call out, “Obi-Wan!”

“Good morning to you too, Ani,” Obi-Wan laughs, nodding to the boy’s companion. “I hope you’re not keeping Ser Olié from his work.”

Smiling warmly, Ric drains his mug and pushes up to his feet. “No, no, Messere, ‘just waiting for you,” he says, ruffling Anakin’s hair.

“Hm,” Obi-Wan smiles back, raising a brow as he gently pushes Anakin back into his seat. “Finish your breakfast, Anakin; it’s rude to speak with your mouth full.” Anakin scowls cutely, but listens and returns to his rations as Obi-Wan turns to his pilot. “Thank you for watching him, I hope Ser Jinn asked you properly.”

He gets a laugh from Ric for that, and a snort from Anakin. “Serah Fett did, actually. I haven’t seen the Jedi yet this morning, Messere.”

“He’s meditating,” Anakin grumbles around his bread, scattering crumbs on the table until Obi-Wan sends him a gently chiding galre, and he quickly shoves the rest of the ration into his mouth to scoop all the crumbs into a pile.

“Well, then I’ll have to have some words with him about that. Thank you again, Ric, I’ve got him from here.”

“As you say, Messere,” Ric says, miming a tip of his hat at Anakin and giving Obi-Wan a short bow. “We should be leaving hyperspace in about two hours.”

Obi-Wan nods back, and waits for Ric to return to the upper deck before dropping onto the bench next to Anakin and stealing a bit of his jerky just to see him scowl again. “Is Ser Jinn really still meditating?” He doesn’t know much of Temple Masters’ routines, especially before a battle, but surely they don’t prioritise personal spiritual fulfillment over childcare.

“He was when I left our quarters,” Anakin grumbles as Obi-Wan attempts to scrub a bit of flour off his cheek with his sleeve, but still lets himself be fussed over. “He tried showing me last night but I couldn’t focus long enough. Jango found me looking for breakfast.”

Obi-Wan sighs and sends a little wave of thanks in Jango’s general direction, even if he might not be Force sensitive enough to feel it. “I’ll definitely have to have some words with Ser Jinn, then.”

Anakin thumps his heels on the underside of the bench as he swings his feet and looks up at Obi-Wan with a thoughtful frown, not shying away when Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow at him. “Your hair’s all simple today,” Anakin finally says, and Obi-Wan laughs again. 

“If we’re going into battle, it wouldn't stay nice for very long, Ani.”

“But you’ll still wear makeup?”

“Full of questions as always, it seems,” he chuckles, and it’s an encouraging thought, that Anakin has retained so much curiosity despite being a slave since birth, that he feels safe enough with the Naboo enough to talk so freely with them. “We’re meeting with Gungan leaders once we land, and I’m afraid I am as duty-bound as Her Majesty to look presentable.”

“I think you look presentable without it,” Anakin says, kindly brushing his hands off on his pants before raising them to the hair Obi-Wan hasn’t pulled back yet. 

Despite his implicit trust in the boy, despite knowing Anakin would never hurt him, would never turn the Force against him, Obi-Wan still flinches, and still has to watch Anakin freeze in fear.

Not for himself, though, for Obi-Wan, and isn’t that the worst possible outcome of Obi-Wan’s inability to move on.

He very slowly leans forward, into Anakin’s still-raised hands. “It’s alright, Ani,” he murmurs, and Anakin hesitantly closes the rest of the gap to tuck his fingers into Obi-Wan’s fringe.

“Oh,” he says, blinking. “It’s soft.”

Fear leaving him all at once, Obi-Wan chuckles. “Rabé would have my skin if I didn’t take care of it.”

Pursing his lips, Anakin very gently tugs his fingers down through to the ends. “Would she let me braid it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“On Tatooine, slaves braid each other’s hair before big or dangerous jobs, or after they’re freed and stuff.” He pushes himself up onto his knees and bites the cuff of one of his sleeves, tugging on the rough-woven fabric until a thick thread pulls loose. Obi-Wan doesn’t stop him, wouldn’t have even if the Force _hadn’t_ told him this was important, to something more than Anakin’s past. “How else are we supposed to know they’ll come back safe?” Slaves don’t make idle customs, and the culture on Tatooine is far older than any Obi-Wan had experienced; he knows there’s more to this than he has the history to understand.

So he obligingly slips out of his boots to cross his legs on the bench and face Anakin properly, letting him part a sizable lock in front of his ear. “Neither of us are slaves anymore, Ani,” he says softly.

“Yeah, and I’m not very good at it,” Anakin agrees with a smile, fingers moving nimbly despite the admission, “but mom says the Kumumgah used to do it too, for ceremonies and battles and stuff. She used to do mine before podraces, for luck!”

“Then I am honoured.” Obi-Wan smiles back and pokes Anakin’s stomach until he laughs. “Will you let me do yours?”

“Wait your turn,” he chides, and Obi-Wan raises his hands in surrender.

Anakin produces a white carved bead out of nowhere when Obi-Wan shifts to stretch out his achy knees, and doesn’t let Obi-Wan get a good look at it before he bites another thread loose from his sleeve. As Anakin is weaving both the bead and the thread two-thirds down his plait, Jango returns from the droid hold and raises an eyebrow at their position, and then gives a fond shake of his head. He moves to the caf machine without saying anything, but Obi-Wan smiles at his back anyways: though his shields are so much stronger than they had been, even the great Jango Fett can’t keep that softness from his face completely.

Anakin grumbles, making a show of tugging on Obi-Wan’s hair to face him again. “Stay still, I’m almost done,” he commands, and Obi-Wan gives a mock-salute.

“Yes, sir.” He leans forward to let Anakin finish.

Jango sets a mug of caf on the table at Obi-Wan’s elbow, just within reach, and disappears down the steps to the cargo bay before Obi-Wan can thank him. It’s amusingly in character, to the point that he wonders if Jango even knows he’s doing it.

“Gross,” Anakin says plainly, though Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he means Jango or the caf. With practiced ease, Anakin knots the first string around the end of Obi-Wan’s new braid, and holds the whole thing up for him to see. “It’s japor,” Anakin answers his questioning look, as Obi-Wan runs his fingers over the carvings in the bead, the lines painted darker by clumsy but earnest hands. “I made one for Padmé, too, since she’ll be going with the Queen to see the Gungans, right? It’ll bring you good luck, or at least that’s what mom always said.”

It occurs to Obi-Wan that of course Anakin had been the one to carve this, with all the free time he’s had to and from Coruscant, but it just confuses him more, because what has Obi-Wan done to deserve that sort of devotion from the boy, to be worthy of such a gift? 

He yanks a squealing Anakin into his arms to smother him against his chest, and wonders how Padmé would feel about a nephew. 

**O** bi-Wan might be able to fool the others, but Padmé immediately notices the sort of stiffness he carries after waking, his favour of his left side, the worried looks Sabé shoots him all through breakfast. She doesn’t get the chance to corner him about it until they’re dropping out of hyperspace on the edge of the Naboo system, when everyone is too busy to notice one of the handmaidens yanking him into the private comm room. 

He certainly isn’t surprised, heaving a sigh as the door slides shut behind them and the automatic lights flick on. “I’m fine,” Obi-Wan says before Padmé can even open her mouth, and she kicks his shin to tell him exactly what she thinks of that.

“Bantha shit,” she adds unncessarily, as the ship rumbles around them at the sudden slow in speed. “Old or future?” she asks, quieter this time, and watches him rub his shoulder resignedly. 

“Future, I think. Padmé, my visions aren’t—”

“‘Aren’t answers’, I know.” Sighing, she looks up at Obi-Wan and hopes that whatever his dreams had been, it isn’t to do with the coming battle. “Will you tell me anyways?”

With a small sad smile, Obi-Wan slips his hands into his sleeves. “You know I won’t, little one. That knowledge is no more for you than it is for me.”

“Well, clearly it _is_ for you, or you wouldn’t be dreaming about it.”

“Aw, are you still jealous that I can predict Life Day presents and you can’t?”

She kicks his shin again — gently, though, she knows what space does do his old aches. “You’re changing the subject: is this something I need to worry about?”

Her brother is usually so hard to read that when he’s like this, expression open and confused and tired, it almost doesn’t matter what he says next: she’s going to worry about it anyways. “I don’t think so. No, really, I don’t... I don’t think it can play out as I saw it, there’s too much changed already.”

Padmé nods. “With Anakin?”

“With Anakin. And Jango, I don’t think he’s supposed to be here.” He frowns at the closed door as if he can see the Mando on the other side, and Padmé might not put that past him. “I think... I think Maul is going to be there. In Theed.”

Oh. Yes, that does complicate things. “I think he was on Tatooine,” she admits, wincing when Obi-Wan’s eyes snap to her. “I didn’t see him and Jinn didn’t know him, so I couldn’t be sure, but if you saw him... Can you somehow alert Jinn? Will he listen?”

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan sighs. “I don’t remember most in the Order believing in precognition enough to listen to it. He’d be stupid not to expect him if Maul really was on Tatooine, but I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s preparing for it; we’ll have to work it into our own plans.”

“And you’ll be able to sway Boss Nass?” 

Smiling far more sincerely, Obi-Wan brushes a hand over her cheek and presses a thumb to the furrow between her brows. “You know I wouldn’t let you retake the palace without backup, little one; Boss Nass will listen, or we will find another way.”

And by the Force, Padmé believes him.

Between Jinn and Ric Olié, as well as the Trade Federation’s surprise that they would return so quickly, they make it planetside after only taking one hit from the blockade, and R2-D2 certainly earns his honours a second time in keeping them all alive long enough to land in the swamps outside Theed. Obi-Wan remembers the coordinates Jar Jar had given him without checking, earning a few headshakes, and Sabé actually manages to snag him for long enough to pull his hair back properly before he can galavant off with the Gungan party waiting for them.

Padmé has to mentally prepare herself for meeting Jar Jar again, but he actually shows some propriety and doesn’t try to hug Obi-Wan under the watchful eye of Captain Tarpals, and none of the Gungans question the presence of a Jedi or another child. Then again, Obi-Wan would have surely told Jar Jar what to expect on their holocall.

Sticking to her place behind Rabé as Captain Tarpals leads them even further into the forest, Padmé could really do without Eritaé spamming their tapcomm about the japor snippet in Obi-Wan’s braid that matches the one around her own neck. Nor does she need Yané abusing their nonverbal hand-signals, because she can _see_ that Fett walks purposefully between Jinn and Obi-Wan, that he lists towards Jango unconsciously and doesn’t seem to mind when their arms brush.

Well, at least it’s not a Jedi, Padmé thinks with a sigh. 

They barely make it into the sacred clearing housing the Gungan camp before Boss Nass spots them and flings out his arms. “Messere Naberrie!” he booms, cutting off Captain Tarpals’ introduction. 

Obi-Wan’s smile is only partly-faked when he tucks his hands into the sleeves of his robe and bows first to Boss Nass, and then to the rest of the Gungan council. “Boss Nass, it has been too long.”

“Yousa joinen us at lasten! Wesa were starten to think yousa'd grown tired of us!” Chortling, Boss Nass thumps down from the ruined statue to meet them, respecting Obi-Wan’s discomfort with physical affection by also not hugging him, but he does still give him a good clap to the shoulder. “So, yousa wanten us to gos against da mackaneeks?”

With a soft, intentional laugh, Obi-Wan dips his head to him. “You see through me, Your Honor,” he says, as Padmé catches Fett moving a step closer.

“Bahhh,” Boss Nass blubbers his cheeks good-naturedly, “yousa been aftah our boomers since Mandalore, hm? Why else would yousa come to us now, hm?” Incredibly, this might actually work out without it coming to blows, or without Padmé revealing herself. She will eventually, of course, if they’re to work closer with the Gungans in the future; the safety it gives her now cannot be ignored.

Jinn also inches forward as if unable to keep his opinions to himself, but Obi-Wan sidesteps just enough to block him from Boss Nass’ view. “Now, Boss Nass,” her brother says easily, “surely you don’t think so little of our friendship? You know as well as I do, that which affects the Naboo will affect you.”

Boss Nass simply blubbers again and waves his war minister forward.

Things move quickly after that, Captain Panaka returning from the camps with resistance leaders in tow, and Rabé gets pulled into the actual discussions for the plan of attack. Padmé stays at her side, giving her input over tapcomm as Obi-Wan defers to Rabé’s lead as easy as breathing; it’s only after Captain Panaka starts going over the schematic for the throne room that Padmé realises Obi-Wan still hasn’t mentioned Maul, that he doesn’t know _how_ to plan for him, if Maul is waiting for them. Maker, she hopes he isn’t going to do something stupid.

And Jinn certainly isn’t helping, even if he’s respectful in his reminders that the Gungans are the lives directly on the line. Part of Padmé knows he’s just doing his job as a peacekeeper, by giving all possible avenues and being clear about the risks, but it isn’t as if either the Naboo or the Gungans weren’t already aware of them. Though perhaps she’s being unfair, letting her opinion of Jinn’s actions a decade before cloud her judgement now.

Obi-Wan finally cuts in when they have a plan even Jinn will nod to, hands folded in front of himself, “Anakin will, of course, be staying on the transport with Dormé,” he says, expression somehow both blank and pleased as Jinn’s lips twitch in annoyance. “This far into the trees, they will be far enough away from both the battle on the swamps and the siege of Theed. If we do not make check-in, Dormé will pilot both herself and Anakin off the far side of the planet, and return to Coruscant.”

Padmé can’t help preening under her brother’s thoroughness, leaving not even an inch of room for Jinn to argue, as he surely would like to. 

It, of course, does not stop the Jedi from saying, “And you’re sure you won’t stay with him?” He rubs his beard, and does not startle when Obi-Wan’s beads clack at the speed with which he turns to glare at him.

“I beg your pardon.”

Jinn holds up his hand placatingly, for all the good that does. “I merely meant that with Captain Panaka and the rebel camp leaders, yourself —and Her Majesty’s handmaidens," he is quick to add, "might be safer here as well.”

Padmé bristles and barely keeps her tongue, having to remind herself that she isn’t Amidala right now, that revealing herself would only cause more problems. Rabé blinks, stunned by the implication that not only could they not take care of themselves, but that the handmaidens _would leave their queen to battle alone;_ which says nothing of the fact they had clearly been thrown in as an afterthought to try to guilt Obi-Wan to stay behind. 

Maker, Padmé could throttle _Ser_ Jinn.

Fett has no such issues of status, giving an almighty snort, and he somehow conveys anger and disbelief in equal measure without the face to express it. “The ability to speak does not make you intelligent,” he growls, and to his credit, Jinn does not seem surprised by the rebuke. “The handmaidens are bodyguards, _jetii:_ they can handle themselves. I need not speak for the Messere, when with no thanks to you, he survived a tenday as a prisoner of war.”

After a moment of tense silence that even Jar Jar dare not break, Jinn nods stiffly and gestures for them to continue. With Sabé skittering on the edge of the congregation, Padmé knows she isn’t the only one to feel Obi-Wan’s simmering rage, his indignance and the grudge he isn’t as over as he maybe thought he’d been.

And Obi-Wan doesn’t _do_ anger, not anymore, not since Mandalore.

Fett certainly isn’t as thick as his armour, Padmé can just barely see him nudge Obi-Wan’s foot with his own, and though Obi-Wan snaps his glare to him instead, something unspoken passes between them and Obi-Wan backs down.

Padmé really will have to thank their hired help properly.

**B** y some sort of Force-bidden miracle, they make it into the Palace at Theed without being discovered by the Trade Federation. Captain Panaka and one of the camp rebels lead the party through the courtyards with vicious efficiency, taking down three B2 droids they could not avoid and somehow not making a sound.

Obi-Wan lets the handmaidens subtly corral him into the centre of the group, along with Rabé and Padmé, because he knows it is not a slight on his competence, and it keeps him as far from Jinn as they can manage right now, the sound of Jango’s boots on the marble floor behind him creating a warm rally for the battle to come.

He should probably meditate on that, the home that rally makes for itself below his ribs.

Infiltrating the hangar is almost easier than it should be, with the diversion back in the courtyards and the sheer number of blasters the droids had not been prepared for. Obi-Wan even gets to take a few out with his staff, and doesn’t miss the resigned acknowledgement Jinn gives him when their gazes meet.

He doesn’t have the time to dwell on the smug anger that has not left him, when the Force slams him with a warning shrill enough for him to stumble right into Padmé’s back. Automatically yanking his sister behind himself, Obi-Wan tries to find Jinn in the battle din and jabs the pointy-end of his _beskar’vik_ straight through a B1’s chest just as the great door to the power generator slides open.

Oh Force, thank the Maker he had made Anakin stay behind.

Padmé chokes out a breath, squeezing his arm before letting him go — she does not stop him from moving forward to meet the first blow from Maul’s lightstaff, and even now, Obi-Wan knows the scream of that kyber. He wonders if Jinn can feel it, the rage that saturates the air until Obi-Wan is sick from it, the single-minded focus with which Maul bears down on him as if there isn’t a Jedi Master just across the room.

_The yellow Zabrak grabs him by the throat and hurls him across the barge, but he doesn’t use the Force, and Obi-Wan rolls back to his feet before he goes over the side. Mij is going to_ kill _him, if he even lives long enough for his instructor to scold him, though in Obi-Wan’s defense he hadn’t actually meant to interrupt a Sith assassination attempt._

_His right leg nearly gives out underneath him, knee still not as strong as his other despite Mij’s best efforts, but the sith apprentice doesn’t give him the chance to steady himself before striking at him again–_

Gritting his teeth, Obi-Wan twists to plant his feet as Mij had taught him, and _shoves_ Maul back with all his strength; he actually manages to put a few feet between them without losing a limb, and doesn’t hesitate to press the advantage of Maul’s surprise. No, this battle will not end the same as before.

Maul of course says nothing as he falls into Form VII, and perhaps Obi-Wan should have known Maul would know better than to face him as he had, but if Mij had taught him absolutely anything, it was to keep up with his katas.

A beskar’vik is not a lightsaber, it cannot match kyber and plasma and the Force — But there is a reason so many Jedi fell at Galidraan.

_Obi-Wan would learn the name “Savage” later, after the funeral, after the Duke gives him a beskar’vik forged by his personal armorer, but for now, Obi-Wan is sixteen and terrified and_ furious. _He_ _had not been Jedi enough before, and he is not Jedi enough now. He can’t even tell what form Savage uses to beat him to the floor of the barge, before he can use the Force to yank Mij’s abandoned chestplate into his hands and shove all his rage upwards, against the Zabrak._

“Obi-Wan!” Padmé shouts in warning, her group of guards and handmaidens poised at the entrance to the rest of the palace, and he all but mentally shoves her onwards, tells her he’ll be fine with a vicious kick landed to the underside of Maul’s chin.

Jinn has his own ‘saber out, yelling for the others to continue the mission, and for once Obi-Wan is glad to have him around, because he is not so arrogant to believe he can defeat Maul on his own. When Jinn makes for the duel, Maul finally acknowledges his existence and backs up through the doorway into the generator, Oh Force he’s actually going to have to face him there, on the catwalks–

Heart in his throat, Obi-Wan lets Jinn make a place for himself in their battle, thankful the Duke had forced co-dueling on him along with Satine, and falls back to let Jinn lead the offensive. This only proves to enrage Maul further, easily meeting both of their attacks with a new ferocity he had not had, even back on Mandalore.

Just at the edges of his awareness, Obi-Wan knows Jango has not followed the others, instead paused two paces from the door, and kriff, Obi-Wan can’t have that.

“Go!” he shouts, shoving at Jango’s shields with venom and intent, and feels Jango’s mind give way in surprise. _‘Stay with Padmé,’_ Obi-Wan orders, leaving the words behind like bootprints. _‘Protect the Queen, capture the Viceroy.’_

Jango’s mind rebels at the feeling of someone else mucking about in it, as Obi-Wan has to twist underneath one end of Maul’s ‘saber so Jinn can catch the other with his own, and then inconceivably, Jango somehow flings words right back at him. _‘Are you kriffing insane?’_

_‘Follow Padmé,’_ he pleads, uncaring if Jango makes the connection now. _‘I’ll meet you at the end.’_

_‘Kriffing hell, I should have stayed on Tatooine.’_ But he listens and turns heel to hurry after the Queen’s party, drawing his second blaster and continuing to swear Obi-Wan out as he goes. _‘Try not to karking die, aruetii: you still owe me an explanation for Mandalore.’_

Obi-Wan chokes on a slightly hysterical laugh, but by then Jango is too far away to reach. What an absolute mess this is, he thinks, sprinting after Maul as he takes a dive further into the generator complex as if Obi-Wan's nightmare isn’t coming alive before his eyes.

At least Savage had had the decency to die properly the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m not super happy with the end result of this, but it’s still leagues better than the first two drafts, and i hope to come back to it someday! and the results from my earlier question were unanimous: y'all want angst with a happy ending, and that's entirely too much power you've given me. 
> 
> (someone also asked about obi-wan's first robes in the last chapter, and i responded with a picture if you're curious!)


	6. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So Bandomeer gives me the right to murder two brothers?”_
> 
> _“Bandomeer gives you the right to nothing.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Mando’a:**  
>  _darjetii_ — sith, lit. “no longer a Jedi”  
>  _Ka’ra_ — an ancient Mandalorian story, ruling council of fallen kings, “stars”

_“You fought off two darjetii?”_

_Obi-Wan cannot meet his eye._

_“Both dead?”_

_“Yes. One went over the side.”_

_“And the other, that’s the one you stabbed with their lightstaff?”_

_“Yes.”_

_He puts a hand on the back of Obi-Wan’s head, not hugging him, staying a pace away and whispering, “I’m sorry."_

**M** aul knocks Jinn clear across the catwalk, the Jedi somehow managing to catch himself before going over the side. The parallel is not lost on Obi-Wan.

Even this few blows in, he can feel his _beskar’vik_ weakening, it was not made for this sort of combat, and he curses it’s hollow design; if the Duke had just gifted him a blaster like a normal Mandalorian, maybe he would actually make it through this in one piece.

Jinn slides easily back into the duel, defending Obi-Wan from a few blows until he can take over the direct attack. Obi-Wan still can’t pause to take a breath, but Maul had been like that before, too.

If Mij is right, Savage had only been a few years older than him, and Maul less than a decade above that. He could hardly have been called _young_ at the time, but the difference between Mandalore and now may as well be writ on their bones.

Maul has learned to control the rage that had made him sloppy before. Obi-Wan has not.

As Maul intentionally keeps giving ground, forcing them closer and closer to the generator pit, Obi-Wan wonders, if had he stayed with the Temple, would he have been able to master this fear? Maul is his worst nightmare walking, easily holding a master Jedi back as if he and Obi-Wan are just a minor nuisance. Maybe they are.

_Mij finds him after the funeral, the pyre still smouldering as the night slowly draws on the day. Satine is disgusted with him, he knows that, even if it had saved her father; she hadn’t even pretended to plan on attending the funeral._

_“Staring at it won’t bring him back.”_

_Out of a morose sort of spite, Obi-Wan doesn’t look up at him. “He was going to kill the Duke, why would I want him back?”_

_“Because then you wouldn’t feel guilty now.”_

_He snorts. “Satine hates me.”_

_Mij sighs, and sits next to him on the duracrete bench that circles the pyre pit. “Satine thinks every situation has a non-violent solution. She has not lived the sorts of lives we have lived.”_

_“So Bandomeer gives me the right to murder two brothers?”_

Jinn is not used to Obi-Wan’s fighting style, just as Obi-Wan is not used to his, and they waste precious moments trying not to stumble over each other’s feet. Maul would be stupid not to press the advantage, and takes a clean chunk out of Jinn’s right arm — in doing so, Maul leaves his chest wide-open.

_“Bandomeer gives you the right to nothing.”_

He jabs the blunt end of his _beskar’vik_ as hard as he can into Maul’s sternum, maybe hoping that Zabraks have a solar plexus, because he cannot bring himself to spin his staff around to the sharp side: Obi-Wan had already killed Maul once, he doesn’t know if he can do it again.

_“But I had been given the choice of you, or Darth Maul and Savage, and I am not ashamed to say I’m just kriffing glad you’re alive.”_

_Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes closed and whispers, “Me too."_

He somehow ends up behind the same plasma shield as Jinn, Maul two doors ahead of them. And Maul doesn’t take his eyes off Obi-Wan as he taps the shield with his ‘saber to see if it will give; Maul is here, on Naboo, because his master told him to be, Obi-Wan is sure of that. But he is also here because Obi-Wan is, and some part of Obi-Wan knows he is only here because Maul is; maybe neither of them should have made it off Mandalore.

The red doors rotate, opening behind his eyes. Obi-Wan moves almost before Jinn does, a sudden new ferocity in him, because Padmé would kill him for thinking like this, and Obi-Wan would probably let her.

Maul stumbles under the strength of Obi-Wan’s strike, having to break their blade-lock despite being a head and shoulders taller than him, and growls at the dark satisfaction on Obi-Wan’s face.

Practically bleeding bewilderment, Jinn hurries to catch up, catching Maul’s second blade with his own so he doesn’t shear the _beskar’vik_ in half. Obi-Wan thinks he can get two or three more blows before it gives out completely, and then he might actually have to commit to trying to stab Maul. He is not just defending himself, after all, and he can’t imagine Anakin would appreciate Obi-Wan getting Jinn killed.

Although the man seems intent on doing that himself, slicing the lightstaff in two in a downward swing. Obi-Wan doesn’t know what form he uses, he doesn’t think he remembers enough about them to even guess, but the Force is screaming and Obi-Wan does remember that few ‘saber forms are heavy on defense. 

Ah, Kriff, and Maul is moving with the blow with the functioning end of his staff, swinging it up from below towards Jinn _who_ _had left his entire body unguarded,_ and Obi-Wan sidesteps between them. 

**W** hen Jango was younger and stupider, he blew an entire contract to Corellian Hells, leaving Myles injured in the hangar and _moronically_ thinking he could take on their mark on his own. He’d lost their mark, and Myles had lost an arm, and Arla’s ghost haunted him for months.

The dread as Jango follows the handmaidens is the same as Concord Dawn, as leaving Myles, and Maker, he hopes he didn’t inherit Jaster’s “bad feelings”. This is what he gets for getting emotionally invested in a job, kriffing kark.

“We have to stall until our pilots can take out the control ship,” Panaka tells the group, as whoever is dressed as the Queen splits off with three of the guards down a different corridor — only further confirming Jango’s suspicion that the handmaiden that had talked to him in the galley is the real deal; Obi-Wan singling her out for protection is all the more telling. “Once we’re in the throne room, the Viceroy won’t be a problem, but after that, if the droids aren’t down, we’ll be stuck in there.”

Padmé frowns deeply, but only takes a moment to make a decision. “We get as close as we can to the throne room, and then let ourselves be captured.”

“They’ll take our weapons,” Jango reminds her.

“There are blasters hidden in the Queen’s chair, and the B1 droids only take the weapons they can actually see; surely you have others hidden away, Ser Fett?”

He shakes his head, and sees why she gets along so well with Obi-Wan. “If they take my helmet, I’m billing you for damages.”

A tiny smile splits her lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The B1 droids are even stupider than Jango remembers, but do actually take his Westars from his thigh holsters, and it takes everything in him to just... _let_ the droids march them to the throne room. 

Nute Gunray wrings his hands at the sight of them, but somehow manages to keep his voice steady enough to still insult Padmé three times in as many breaths. Jango would probably care, if his helmet hadn't zeroed in on a wildly out-of-place, crusty stain on the marble floor, his HUD identifying it as human blood. 

He doesn't need the HUD to know it belonged to Obi-Wan, the last time they had both been here. 

“Time for you to sign the treaty and end this pointless debate in the senate,” Gunray rumbles sleazily, and Jango resists the urge to just set him on fire with his flamethrower.

“Viceroy!” The handmaiden in the regalia shouts, calling their attention back to the corridor behind them, and she seems to have collected a few more of the guards. “Your occupation has come to an end!” She takes a shot at Gunray, before ducking away with her men at her heels.

“After her! This one is a decoy!”

Padmé nods to Jango as she slips through the droids to the throne, opening a panel on the arm. _Finally,_ Jango thinks with a not altogether-kind kick of satisfaction, and shoots his grappling line at the droid with the biggest blaster.

“Captain!” Padmé calls, tossing a blaster to Panaka before slinging one in Jango’s direction as well. Catching it, he has to admire her throwing arm, and her aim as they easily take out the rest of the droids. 

Panaka shouts, “Jam the doors!”

Jango shoots both door panels from across the room, the panels crashing closed with the screech of an alarm; Padmé swings her blaster around to Gunray’s head with the intent to _hurt,_ if the Neimoidian so much as twitches wrong.

“Now, Viceroy,” the Queen says icily, and she must have seen the blood on the floor too, “we will discuss a new treaty; Naboo was once ruled by cowards like you, and we will not allow it again.”

After that, it’s almost laughably easy to cuff Gunray and Haako, Panaka sitting them both down on one side of the desk before the throne. As Jango is helping him lock the cuffs to the arms of the chairs, Padmé pulls a datacard from the throne as well and slips it into the control bank on the desk. With the droid control ship still active, there's little hope of getting a message off planet, but Padmé loads it up anyways, flicking over the screen readout until a file titled _Accord Revision IV (Final)_ is queued for sending as soon as they get signal back. 

Only then does she turn back to the Viceroy, pulling a datapad from within her robes and setting it on the desk in front of him. "I had quite a lot of time, running to and from Coruscant, Viceroy, I'm sure you'll find the revised treaty between the planet of Naboo and the Trade Federation most thorough."

Panaka snorts, and takes a step away from the desk as his comm fizzles to life. But instead of the pilots as Jango had expected, it's Jinn's voice that echoes in the sudden silence of battle,

_“The Sith has made a run for it,”_ he pants, _“I am in pursuit; Messere Naberrie requires assistance in the lowest generator pit.”_ He says something else, but Jango isn’t listening, jerking around to Padmé to find her eyes already on him, afraid for the first time since they’d landed in the swamps. “Assistance” can mean anything, from holding off more droids to medical to just being simply lost in the complex; Jango would like to think he knows Obi-Wan well enough at this point to know he wouldn’t have let Jinn run off on his own unless he _physically could not follow._

**O** bi-Wan wrangles the Force in a way he hasn’t since before Bandomeer, inhaling it in from all around him and driving it towards his center, molding it like a physical thing until he can draw it back out and _push,_ just as his _beskar’vik_ splits. He had never been very good at object manipulation as an initiate, and his adoptive mother had included very little of it in his lessons with Sabé, so he isn’t sure why he thinks to call on it just then.

But he shoves that physical thing at Maul, and launches him across the room.

Maul hits the opposite side of the melting pit with the speed and force of a freighter, spine hitting the edge hard enough that they can hear the crack. He drops into the pit and barely manages to catch himself on a protruding nozzle, roaring with rage. 

Jinn catches Obi-Wan around the waist from behind as Maul heaves himself back out of the pit. He calls the remaining half of his lightstaff back into his hand, watching Obi-Wan’s knee hit the floor with satisfaction sparking in his yellow eyes, before turning and sprinting out the only other exit; Obi-Wan prays Padmé and the others have already barricaded themselves in the throne room. 

"Obi-Wan," Jinn breathes, helping him the rest of the way to the floor, but Obi-Wan pushes at Jinn's chest with a bloody hand. 

"Go after him," he snaps hoarsely, only realising he's still holding half of his _beskar’vik_ when Jinn gently takes it from him; the clean slice through it is still orange-hot, and Obi-Wan’s palm comes away burned.

Jinn reaches for it with the Force, but Obi-Wan growls and tries to weakly shove him again. "Go _after him,"_ he repeats, hand slipping off Jinn's chest to curl around himself. 

"Messere, you need medical attention, I will not leave you–"

"I have the Force, I can hold out," he grits. 

And Jinn actually looks torn, glancing at Maul’s escape. "You should not have to. Once you are stable, I can—"

"Jinn, I swear on your grandmaster's hairy ass, if you don't try to catch that Sith, you will never again know a moment of peace."

Slightly horrified, Jinn still respects him enough to pull away and retrieve his 'saber hilt from the floor next to him. "As you say, Messere. I will send someone to get you, try to keep pressure on that."

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes as Jinn gives him a bloody shoulder-pat, before the Jedi heaves to his feet and takes after Maul, pulling a comm out of his tunics to use as soon as he's away from the generator's interference. Abruptly, the only sound is the whirr of the plasma doors, and Obi-Wan’s own pulse drumming in his ears.

Only when he's calmed his breathing to almost meditation does he take stock of himself, and maybe... maybe he shouldn't have sent Jinn away.

He's bleeding sluggishly from the half-cauterised gash from his left hip to his right shoulder, his right arm hanging uselessly, and he had been far too close to Maul to escape with something shallow. Honestly, he doesn’t want to think about it.

The plasma doors rotate through another cycle before Obi-Wan can focus enough to start dragging himself towards the nearest wall, choosing a spot halfway between both sets of doors. He nearly bites through his lip trying to get himself upright, and maybe sitting up isn't the best idea, but now his back is protected and he can watch the doors, because Maker knows where the handmaidens are at in their retaking of Theed.

Chancing an attempt at reaching out with the Force, Obi-Wan easily finds Padmé and Gunray in the throne room, feels Jinn sprinting further away from him back towards the hangar, feels Maul even further out. The relief at finding that Jango had stayed with Padmé has Obi-Wan spacing out between one rotation of the blast doors and the next.

When he can focus on the plasma shields again, Sabé is looking back at him from the other side of the last door, her handmaiden hood knocked back with her dark hair falling about her face.

“Obi-Wan!” she shouts, why is she shouting? 

She doesn’t wait for the door to even finish turning before she’s sliding between the gap with the wall and rushing across the catwalk to Obi-Wan. He blinks and she’s kneeling next him, babbling too fast for him to keep up with as she shoves both hands onto his chest like she can somehow keep him together if she holds tight enough.

“— oh Maker,” she gasps, trying valiantly to keep her expression stern, “Sith kriffing hells, Obi-Wan, if you don’t–”

“Sabé,” he manages in return, latching onto her wrist with his good hand. “Sabé, you need to breathe.”

“Don’t you kriffing tell me what to do, you giant bantha-shitting– Corellian Hells, Obi-Wan I don’t know what I’m doing, what the kriff do I do–”

Obi-Wan drops her wrist to press his palm to the side of her face instead, letting her suck in a breath before reaching out to her mind and waiting for her to meet him halfway. Only when her glittering gold presence meets his own does he dive behind her shields and lead her gently to their shared memories of their lessons with Jobal. Still so receptive, Sabé follows him easily, picking through them until she finds their lessons on Force healing.

He tries not to think about where he’d learned to do any of this to her mind.

“Right,” Sabé breathes, tugging them both back out of her head and back to the generator under Theed, as she shifts her hands over Obi-Wan’s numb torso.

Dropping his own back to the floor, he manages a small smile. “Remember,” he rasps, “you do not need to heal me, only keep me alive.”

“Right.” She nods, and though her lip still trembles as blood from Obi-Wan’s palm drips down the side of her face, that gold presence seeps out around her until she can wrap him into the little bubble of glitter and warmth. Sure enough, Obi-Wan feels his sluggish heartbeat pick up pace a little, just enough to keep him from going into shock just yet, just enough to keep his blood pumping. 

He thunks his head against the wall and lets her take the lead —she had always been better at this anyway— and instead busies himself with checking back on Padmé and Jango. They’re both fine, he thinks; things must be going well, because any B1 Force signatures that had been in the Throne Room with them have been snuffed out, as well as any in the surrounding corridors.

Had Jinn actually called for a medic? Surely Sabé had broken away from the group before Maul had made a run for it, she can’t have heard Jinn’s message, but the lack of any other signatures in the outside hangar or down the hall Jinn had gone does not fill him with confidence.

Obi-Wan will not die here, not like he had dreamt, not with Sabé wrist-deep in his chest: he will not do that to her, and he will not do that to Padmé. 

Pulling on some of the strength his time on Mandalore had taught him, Obi-Wan raises his hand back to Sabé’s wrist; though he cannot offer her his own Force, no that would be counterproductive, he can still give her a little more stability. As she gently goes through his viscera and repairs the edges of damaged organs, she’ll need all the stability she can get.

He doesn't know how long they sit there, Sabé keeping as much blood in his body as possible and Obi-Wan just hoping Jinn had actually sent a medic, but it can't have been more than a few minutes later when the Force around them all but bursts at the seams with sudden, unadulterated _glee._

Sabé gasps and her hands slip, as she jerks away to look hurriedly around the room. "Obi-Wan, what–"

"Anakin," he whispers, closing his eyes and stretching himself as far as he possibly can, until he can feel Anakin’s nova-warmth re-entering the atmosphere. When the kriff had he gotten off planet?

All at once, every droid from Theed to the swamps shuts off like a switch had been flipped, the sudden emptiness left in their wake knocking the breath from Obi-Wan’s lungs. Sabé must feel something too, but maybe only because she's touching Obi-Wan when he does; it doesn't matter, when Anakin’s joy shoves itself into every crevice of their beings.

Obi-Wan quickly closes his eyes and searches for Padmé again, noting with satisfaction that Rabé and the other guards have joined her to surround Gunray and Haako while they "negotiate". He looks for Jango too, out of habit by now, and finds him moving quickly _away_ from the throne room.

He's not running, Obi-Wan knows he would never run from a contract, but then what the kriff is he thinking circling back to the hangar? 

**J** ango doesn’t leave as soon as the droids drop, he has enough propriety to wait for Padmé’s jerky nod of half order, half permission, but after that Jango doesn’t hesitate to blast one of the doors open to sprint for the hangar. 

The halls are still remarkably empty aside from the prone bodies of the Trade Federation’s army, though he does pass a few of the guards heading for the throne room, and no one tries to stop him from jetpacking across the hangar 

When his boots hit the floor, just inside the first hall to the generator, something warm and wholly Obi-Wan presses against his mind. Everything in Jango rebels against the feel of someone trying to muck around in his brain again, he remembers the spice runners’ co-captain too vividly still, but this is not like before. This is gentle and unobtrusive, wordless in asking for permission before trying to move any further than the very edges of his shields.

Taking a deep breath, Jango lets him in. 

But unlike their quick conversation before splitting up, Obi-Wan doesn’t try to speak to him; instead, he mentally takes him by the hand and tugs him towards the closest connecting corridor. Like this, Obi-Wan leads him through the labyrinth of doors and catwalks to the very center of the complex, Jango using his jetpack to make it through the frankly ridiculous number of plasma doors in one hop.

His HUD zeroes in on the pieces of Obi-Wan’s _beskar’vik_ first, somehow on completely different sides of the melting pit from each other, before his gaze finds the spotted trail of blood leading to the heap of red clothing further along the rounded wall. A handmaiden looks up at him, pale but determined, as Jango follows her arms down to her hands, to the mess of blood and fabric that is Obi-Wan’s chest, and Jango wonders if Jinn had been dropped on his head as a child. _Repeatedly._

“Serah Fett,” the handmaiden calls, almost too quiet to compete with the sound of the blast doors turning.

He doesn’t waste time then, moving to their side as fast as his boots will carry him. There’s blood all over the girl, her palms pressed flat to the wound that stretches from Obi-Wan’s shoulder to hip, but she thankfully seems to be alright otherwise. Obi-wan’s makeup is somehow still intact save for the blue bitten away from his bottom lip; Jango forces himself to slow down and do a quick medical scan, and thanks the _Ka’ra_ that the _darjetti’s_ lightstaff had cauterised even as it sliced.

The girl moves out of the way so Jango can scoop Obi-Wan up from the floor, worrying less about being _gentle_ than being _fast._

Obi-Wan’s eyes fly open as the handmaiden helps loop his good arm around Jango’s neck. “Oh, hello there,” he mumbles, as if he hadn’t just psychically led Jango all the way there.

“Can you keep him alive long enough to get him to Jinn?” Jango asks the handmaiden, who gives a firm nod and stands to put a hand right over Obi-Wan’s throat.

“Of course,” she says hoarsely, easily finagling herself at Jango’s side to be able to run next to him while still keeping that hand on him.

Obi-Wan weighs more than Jango had expected, though he had seen how toned his body is despite being a politician; even then, it’s almost too easy to carry him quickly back towards the blast doors. “Getting through these will be the hardest part,” Jango says, to both the handmaiden and Obi-Wan. “Once we’re back in the hangar, I’m going to need you to comm both Jinn and that crazy medic Panaka found in the camps.”

She nods sharply. “I can do that.”

“Good, get ready.” Jango adjusts Obi-Wan in his arms, who miraculously still has the energy to tip his head back and look up at him.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to apologise to your _buir,_ Jango,” he says only half-deliriously 

No, nope, Jango’s not opening that can of Arconan Saltgrubs right now.

Without his jetpack, the three of them only make it halfway down the corridor before the plasma doors close in around them, and the handmaiden swears under her breath. “Do others know where we are?”

“Jinn actually had the forethought to contact Captain Panaka,” Jango sighs, as Obi-Wan drops his head back down onto his shoulder. “But I don’t know if we have full control of the palace again.”

“‘Said I’d keep you out of trouble,” Obi-Wan mumbles when they ignore him, Jango looking down just in time to see his eyes close.

“Well, then you’re as stupid as you look,” he bites back, making a mental note to send someone back for the _beskar’vik:_ even if it _had_ been made by the Duke, it was a wonderful weapon. “Nobody promises banthashit like that.” When had Jaster even had the time to weasel such a promise out of him?

The doors start another cycle, and the handmaiden doesn’t hesitate to match his pace until they somehow make it out the other side. And then they can’t afford to stop, though Obi-Wan’s presence in his mind feels just as strong as always and he doesn’t give Jango time to worry about finding their way back by memory, giving him gentle nudges towards the right doors, the right hallways.

They’re almost out of the power complex, Jango _knows_ they’re close, when Obi-Wan lets out a breath that’s almost a chuckle, and Jango swears he can feel it against his throat. “You made me promise, too,” he rasps, that grasp on Jango’s mind slipping just enough to scare the kriff out of him.

“At least you still have time to keep that one, then,” Jango snaps, careful not to trip as they round the corner for the hangar and the handmaiden pulls out her comm one-handed, already relaying instructions.

Obi-Wan tightens his grip on Jango’s shoulder, as his throat jumps around a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> never promising i’m back on a schedule ever again lmao


End file.
